She Was There III: The Interludes
by Saimhe
Summary: Part 3 of the She Was There Saga
1. I Don't Know How to Say Good-bye

I Don't Know How to Say Good-bye  
Mid-September 1998   
  
Standing in the open French doors of Nikita's balcony, Madeline was only vaguely aware of the passage of time: that the sun was long set and the sky had turned black, filled with innumerable points of light. The cool autumn air drifted around her as she tried to shut out everything except the feel of it caressing her skin. All she wanted was to reclaim the sense of inner calm that eluded her. Yet even here, one of the few places where she had felt anything that resembled peace or emotional security in recent years, she couldn't escape the underlying anger and restlessness that plagued her.   
  
Nothing worked. Her mind kept coming back to the events of the day: kept coming back to Lauren Haas. With the thoughts and the memories came the desire to strangle the blonde recruit.   
  
Lauren was everything Section wanted and needed in a female operative - especially now. Her ratings and performance evaluations were consistently high. She had even managed to garner Operations' early approval for her easy acceptance of the ways of Section. She was a potentially excellent operative. Lauren was tall, blonde, and aesthetically pleasing. Madeline realized that some thought her beautiful, and at one time Madeline would have agreed - she didn't now.   
  
Madeline had played her "Section Mother" role flawlessly as she had carefully prepared and examined Lauren before her "final exam". While she had noted every detail, including recognizing the girl's "beauty", she had still found her lacking: there was nothing compelling about her. When they had finished, Lauren had smiled her sweetest smile, thanked her, and sauntered out of the room.   
  
In that moment, Madeline realized she hated her. Venomously. She had been almost gleeful when she realized that Lauren's lighthearted, happy attitude would end in an ugly struggle for survival. It had taken the better part of the evening to release the last vestiges of the hatred from her heart and to chase the random disturbing thoughts from her mind only to have them return with the sunrise when Lauren reentered her office.   
  
Just as she was concluding her check-in with Walter, the door alert had sounded and released the lock. She had looked up and seen Lauren standing by the chair in front of her glass-topped desk, affecting a rebellious, impatient stance. Immediately, Madeline's trained eye recognized something wasn't right. She did a quick mental scan and noticed the calculated attempt on Lauren's part to "reflect" Nikita's style and personality. Her blonde hair was pulled over one shoulder and wrapped by a leather cord. Madeline had seen Nikita wearing a similar apparatus in her hair on occasion, but never in that style. Even her non-section style of dress seemed a deliberate attempt to elicit a subconscious comparison to Nikita.   
  
When Madeline had gestured to the chair across from her desk, Lauren had drop herself into it and smiled: the same sweet smile she had used the night before. It had taken Madeline a great deal of reserve to not reach across her desk and smack it from the young woman's face. She had asked Lauren how she envisioned her role in Section. Lauren had played coy, toying with her shirt, not looking Madeline in the eye. When Madeline asked her point blank if she would like to be assigned to Michael's team, a look of satisfaction had immediately appeared on Lauren's face. Knowing she was close to personally canceling the twit, Madeline had given her a Mona Lisa smile and told her, "That will be all." She just barely managed to keep her eyes from squinting as Lauren strolled out the door.   
  
Later, she had watched as Lauren tried to "cozy" up to Birkoff, who was promptly repelled by her behavior. Lauren had even managed to cause the usual calm and indifferent Ken to loose his cool. Madeline had rounded the corner of the corridor that lead to the workout area just in time to see Ken step back from a visibly startled Lauren. For one unguarded moment Madeline had seen Ken's face twisted in disgust and anger. Each incident that Madeline witnessed left her feeling proud and more than a little vindicated.   
  
Leaning back against the door frame, Madeline ducked her chin to her chest before rolling her head from side to side, hoping to alleviate the tension that had spawned the incessant throbbing behind her temples. Taking a deep breath, as if to bolster herself, she admitted that perhaps her harsh reaction to Lauren had more to do with who she wasn't rather than who she was. Here, in the privacy and security of Nikita's home, knowing that all surveillance had been turned off, she could admit that she missed Nikita. She could admit to herself that she felt angry about Nikita's death, angry with Nikita for dying, and angry that she hadn't foreseen what would happen. Intellectually she knew it was illogical - Nikita's death was not something she could have foreseen. But the gnawing flutter that had twisted her stomach for the last two months whenever she pulled up Nikita's reports told her she was wrong. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something. It grated at her. Lauren, thanks to her behavior and appearance, was just a convenient outlet.   
  
Walking back to the kitchen, Madeline placed her small china cup on the glass counter and refilled the kettle, setting it back on the stove to heat. While she waited, she again wandered the apartment, taking in the changes Nikita had brought to the place since Madeline had last been there.   
  
The first time Madeline had come to Nikita's apartment, the color and exuberance of the place had moved her - shocked her. The room seemed alive, filled with strong vivid colors and whimsical motion. It was a sharp contrast to the austereness which now surrounded her. The only connection between the old Nikita and the one who had lived in this apartment were the variety of candles dispersed throughout the room.   
  
At the sound of the kettle's whistle, Madeline returned to the kitchenette and prepared her cup of tea. Wanting to watch the shadow of flames dance across the walls, she grabbed her purse off the counter to retrieve a lighter. Unexpectedly her fingers brushed along the edges of a wire sculpture; she froze momentarily, then slowly pulled it from her purse.   
  
Staring at the brightly colored wire object, Madeline remembered the second time she had been to Nikita's apartment. She had returned, ostensibly to prepare it for housekeeping, after Nikita had been listed as "cancelled" following the botched Shay's mission. Madeline had begun to see the signs of guilt weighing on Michael and watching him slowly tear himself apart caused her to doubt her own conviction that he had somehow saved Nikita. Needing to reaffirm her belief in Nikita's strength and vitality, in her ability to survive, Madeline had come to the wildly decorated studio; it had been the only possible place where she felt she could do that.   
  
The wire sculpture had been left on Nikita's kitchen counter. To Madeline, the mass of thin, brightly colored, tangled wire constrained by thicker black wire seemed to represent life entombed by death. It was a perfect reflection of what Nikita's state of mind had been when she had left Madeline's office prepared to end her own life. Madeline had gambled that Michael could save Nikita when she had ordered the cancellation of "Josephine". When she left Nikita's apartment that time, Madeline had pocketed the small wire sculpture, and, for some reason she had never bothered to analyze, had carried it ever since. She had kept it hidden, retrieving it only when she was informed of Nikita's death.   
  
Placing the sculpture back inside her purse, she retrieved the lighter and set about illuminating the dark room. In the flickering glow of the candles, Madeline turned on the CD player, the last disk Nikita had listened still in the player, and tried to recapture the essence of Nikita in the room. Retrieving her tea, she settled on the sofa; she had to resolve her feelings here - now. Madeline had recommend that Lauren be transferred to a substation and she would be on her way by the time Madeline returned to Section. With Lauren gone, there was no longer an easy target for her anger and frustration; she had to come to terms with her anger and grief instead of externalizing it. She was glad, however, that she would have one less unpleasant reminder of Nikita's absence to deal with on a daily basis.   
  
The only surprise left to figure out then was Operations. He had not only agreed with her decision, but seemed genuinely relieved to know Lauren was leaving. She had caught him watching the young recruit in the past few weeks, noting the resigned expression on his face that many mistook for acceptance, whenever he looked at Lauren. Madeline realized that Nikita's death had affected him more than he was letting on, more than he wanted to accept. Now all she had to do was find a way to help him deal with his feelings - after she dealt with hers.   
  
Rising from the sofa, she took one more look around the room, then walking up to each candle, Madeline remembered an occasion with, or a particular nuance of Nikita's, then extinguished the flame and said good-bye to the light that had lived there. Finally, the room in darkness, she placed her cup on the counter, took her purse and exited the apartment. Closing the door behind her and standing with her back to it, she called Housekeeping.   
  
~~*~~  
Three weeks had passed since Nikita's funeral, almost a month since her death. Even though he had accepted that as fact, there were times when Michael could swear she was just in another room - he could feel her; times when some small voice within him refused to accept that she was forever gone from him - beyond his reach. In quiet moments, that voice whispered to him, comforted him. Ironic, that in the midst of one of the greatest tragedies of his life, Michael had found his soul - Nikita's last parting gift to him.   
  
Although he didn't find comfort in any form of organized religion, Michael did find comfort in believing that there was more to Nikita than flesh and blood. That in some way, some form, call it a soul or spirit, she continued. He doubted he would ever stop aching for her physical presence, but he believed that as long as he needed her, she would somehow be there, if only in his heart.   
  
From his position on the edge of the bed, Michael slowly scanned the room. He knew this might be the last time he would be in this house, this room; he wanted to remember every detail. The room itself was uncluttered and airy; a large frosted glass window dominated the far wall and flooded the room with light. The bed was neatly made; the crisp white comforter lay flat and smooth, the pillows fluffed and placed back into their matching croqueted shams. Running his hand across the soft fabric, he allowed himself to feel her presence and to remember the nights he had sat up and watched Nikita sleep. The moon's light drifting through the frosted window, seeming to cocoon them in peace and tranquility: in a sense of rightness and belonging. He had loved to simply gaze at her, as moonbeams illuminated her beautiful face, and know that she would always be his love. Taking a fortifying breath, Michael stood and walked around the room.   
  
The wooden chest sat open at the foot of the bed, filled with the colorful pillows and chenille blankets Nikita had loved. Her favorite indigo throw was stored safely in Michael's bag. The oversized, overstuffed, chair sat in the corner, a stack of dog-eared books beside it. Michael's armoire stood against the wall opposite the bed. He moved quickly to it and opened the bottom drawer, reaching inside, his questing fingers searching for a jewelry box. Feeling the soft brush of the velvet knap against his callused fingertips he grasped it tightly and removed it from the drawer, opening the tiny hinged lid. Inside, on a bed of satin, rested the platinum charm bracelet he had planned to give Nikita. Silent tears falling from his eyes, he raised the bracelet to his lips, kissing is softly before placing it securely in his pocket.   
  
Standing, he turned his attention to her closet. The doors were closed and Michael knew that it was empty now. With Walter's and Linda's help, and patience, they had bagged and boxed up most of Nikita's clothes to be given to a homeless women's shelter. Somehow, he knew that would have made her happy.   
  
Turning, he faced the bathroom door; her white bathrobe still hung behind the door. It had reminded him too much of the one she had brought with her on the Armel mission and Michael had been unable to put it in a bag and give it away. Somehow, knowing it hung there was comforting. As far as he knew, her hair brush and toiletries were still in the medicine cabinet. He didn't understand why he felt so compelled to hold onto these items; he hadn't needed to hold onto anything when Simone had died. When he had lost her, he had felt the need to purge her from the house, finding only pain in what she had left behind.   
  
With Nikita, there were many items Michael didn't particularly want, but the memories attached to them were still too clear, too strong, to give them away. Some, like the bathrobe, had evoked a nearly violent emotional reaction when he watched Linda place them in a box and close the lid. Overwhelming fear and grief had shattered his senses and caused him to move with startling speed to retrieve it from the box. It had been like Nikita was dying all over again and he hadn't been able to stand it. He could still feel the relief that had washed over him when he had stumbled back and fallen into the oversized chair, the bathrobe clutched to his chest. He had wept then, cradled in Linda's arms, with an abandon he had never experienced before, all the while whispering, "I'm sorry."   
  
Shaking the memory off, he turned his attention to the last important piece of furniture: Nikita's dresser. It was completely empty. All the clothes that had been in it were either packed in boxes on their way to the shelter or in his bag. Knowing he may never come back to this house, there were some items he refused to leave behind, like the plain white shift Nikita had often worn to bed. Even now, he remembered the feel of the silky fabric brushing against his skin as Nikita unconsciously snuggled against him in her sleep.   
  
Slowly, Michael reached out and caressed the top of the framed picture that stood in the corner on top of the dresser and wondered, not for the first time, when Nikita had taken it. It was here in this house: he was standing by the French doors, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Lifting the picture, he removed the back of the frame. A loose slip of paper fell out, addressed to him in Nikita's handwriting. He stood for a moment, torn between the desire to open the letter, see the words she had meant for him, and the fear that doing so would break his resolve and what little control of his emotions was left to him. Tucking it carefully into his coat pocket, he looked back to the picture. On the back was written, "Nikita, I couldn't resist taking this picture of Michael. It's the most expressive I have seen his face. Ever! With all the noise in the house, thanks to the Patrick's and Rob's antics, I don't think Michael even knew I took the picture. Of course, it could also be that watching you on the beach captivated him. Love always, Linda"   
  
Replacing the back on the frame, he set it back in its place and turned his attention to the bottles of perfume. He gently brushed the red top of the Samsara bottle with his fingertips. He loved the way the perfume always took on the subtle characteristics of Nikita's own scent when she had worn it. Next, he lifted the bottle of gardenia oil to his nose, inhaling the delicate scent, lowering it to the dresser, his hand faltered. Holding the bottle tightly he turned and placed it in his bag. Slinging the strap onto his shoulder, he turned and strode from the room, closing the door behind him.   
  
Walking into the living room, Michael allowed his eyes to drift, drinking in the feel of Nikita that filled the space. Her personality and style permeated the room, and somehow she seemed at once both incredibly distant and infinitely near. Walking to the entertainment cabinet, he lifted the picture of her. "Are you still here, Nikita? Can you see me? Hear me?" Pausing, he gently traced the curve of the frame. "I have to leave, Nikita, to return to Section. You gave me back my soul. I will not surrender it again. Stay close, mon coeur. I love you."   
  
Placing the frame back on the cabinet, he turned and froze. Turning back, he lifted the picture and slipped it into his bag, along with his other momentos of the woman who had saved him. Then making his way to the entry foyer he reached for the door handle, closed his eyes and imagined Nikita standing by the French doors smiling at him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he assured himself that the St. Michael necklace, the charm bracelet and Nikita's letter were there. Opening his eyes, he pulled open the door, activated the security system, stepped through, and then closed it behind him. Taking a calming, centering, breath, Michael walked toward the black Jeep Cherokee where Walter waited to accompany him on the trip back to Section.   
  
*****  
The leaves must turn   
the wind must blow   
the heart must learn   
when it's time for the heart to let go   
but when I think of you   
my heart knows why   
I don't know how to say to say good-bye   
The world moves on   
with no regret   
and though your gone   
there are feelings I'll never forget   
so I remember you   
and though I try   
I don't know how to say good-bye   
The house we used to share   
still looks as if your there   
and I won't change a single thing   
not even the wedding ring I wear   
The evenings fall   
much harder now   
the stars grow small   
and the moon seems so different somehow   
but every time I think of you   
the moon and I   
know you're the only reason why   
I don't know how to say good-bye   
From Linda Eder's album, It's Time   
Music written by Frank Wildhorn   
Lyrics by ??? (sorry, can't find cd insert!!)   
Mid-September 1998   
  



	2. Where's The Girl?

Early October 1998  
From his perch, Operations observed Michael enter the staging area on his way out of section. Just over 2 month ago, he had sat in Madeline's office as she confirmed that Nikita had died in a burning car in the middle of nowhere. He had prepared himself to watch Michael slowly self-destruct. Instead he had witnessed Michael find the courage and strength to face his pain and grief. He didn't know who to thank more for that - Michael, Walter, Madeline or Nikita, herself. All had played a role in helping Michael and, in their respective ways, continued to help him.   
  
He continued to watch as Michael paused, responding to Birkoff's call, and then walked to stand behind him. Peripherally, Operations spotted Madeline and he shifted his gaze to watched the seductive sway of her hips as she strode across the catwalk. Her deep brown hair lit warmly under the lights, the equally dark brown coatdress she wore accentuating her perfect hourglass figure. He followed her progress down the steps, across the staging area. He continued to watch as she leaned over Birkoff's shoulder pointing to something on the screen, her dress shaping around her derriere. Slowly, Madeline turned her face up and their eyes locked. Operations watched as she smiled the slight Mona Lisa smile that she had favored for so long and remembered another smile, from long ago when they were different people; one that belonged to a woman he wondered if still existed. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to remember.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
New Year's Eve, 1970, American Embassy in Australia   
  
The ballroom glittered. The sequins on the lavish gowns and the jewels of the woman who glided about the room caught the light the exquisite cut crystal chandeliers.   
  
Turning toward his partner, he allowed his eyes to drift over the long black evening dress that clung to her curves. Her hair was arranged atop her head, a small camera hidden in the dark brown tress, disguised by the clip that held it all in place. Her eyes, alight with a cold calculating flame, met his as she extended her hand and lead him to the dance floor.   
  
"I see him. In the far corner, by the balcony - he is sitting on one of the benches." Her voice was a low whisper in his ear as he turned her across the room in his arms. He felt her arms drift under his jacket, caressing his back before grasping the gun holstered there. Carefully, he maneuvered them toward their target. "All teams prepare to move," he whispered low into the receiver concealed behind Madeline's ear.   
  
Finally drawing near the target, Madeline skillfully withdrew from his arms and maneuvered them to stand behind the bench, her arm still concealed within his jacket. With the ease and fluidity of a skilled dancer, Madeline separated from him, drawing the gun with her, keeping it hidden behind the target's back as she moved to sit beside him.   
  
"Hello, Dr. Reardon." The glint of steel in her eyes belied the warmth and gentleness of her tone. "I need you to come with us." Madeline continued pressing the gun firmly into the small of the targets back. The bewildered doctor turned his face up, looking first at the woman beside him and toward himself. He watched the doctor's expression turned to fear.   
  
"We have no intention of hurting you, Doctor. We are here for your protection. Just come with us and everything will be fine." Her voice was smooth, velvety, and seductive. A calm settled over the doctor and he smoothly stood with Madeline and together they walked through the ballroom, up the stairs and out into the receiving hall. Two tuxedo-clad operatives approached them, each with overcoats draped over their arms. He nodded to them, stepping slightly behind them, allowing one to move into his position beside the doctor and positioning himself to cover Madeline. With the ease of a long practiced movement, Madeline shifted toward him, allowing her arms to slide around his waist in an embrace. As she lay her head on his chest, calling out the good-bye their scenario required, her hand slipped the gun back into its holster at his back.   
  
The sequence complete and the target acquired, all operative teams were ordered to leave separately and report back to the plane. Gazing down at the woman still wrapped in his arms, he was once again caught in the fire that glowed in her rich brown eyes. A warm, passionate blaze that burned for only him. Slowly, he turned her back toward the ballroom, keeping her pressed to his side with an arm about her waist. Taking two champagne flutes from a passing server, he handed one to Madeline, his eyes trailing over her body, appreciating the image she presented. Raising his hand in a silent toast, he smiled at her, letting her see the love he felt for her in his eyes. His heart raced to see the returned love in her eyes. Tilting the glasses, he downed the champagne. Taking her glass, also empty, he set it with his on a table before pulling her into his body and guiding her to the dance floor. Time disappeared as he glided across the floor with Madeline held close in his arms. They danced until the music stopped and the countdown began. When the count reached five, Madeline turned in his arms to face him, drawing her hands up to cup his face; she gently drew his head down. Their lips met as the sound of horns rung in a New Year.   
  
When he pulled back from the kiss, he saw the mischievous twist to Madeline's smile. He wanted to laugh at the sheer joy and the thrill of life that burned through him at that smile. Taking his hand, Madeline lead him through the throngs of guests on the ballroom floor and out into the warm night. h3~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Paul?"   
  
The smooth, familiar voice called him back. Opening his eyes he found that it was no longer Madeline's eyes that stared up at him from the staging area, but Michael's typically blank ones. For a moment, he wondered if he stood face to face with Michael would he be able to see the pain that still lingered behind that mask. Pain caused by Nikita's death. Quietly, Operations sent a prayer of thanks to whatever powers existed that he had yet to experience that pain, before answering the woman that still, after all their years together in world of ghosts, shadows and betrayals, owned his heart.   
  
"Yes, Madeline," he said, still staring out his window, the spoken words devoid of the feelings that caromed through him. Touching the keypad, he darkened the window as he felt her approach him. She stopped when she stood barely a hair's breath from him, close enough for him to feel her breathing beside him. Turning, he gazed into her eyes, searching for any sign of the girl who had once laughed and smiled with him. The one who had loved him. On impulse, he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his lips to meet hers. Operations felt the shock run through her just before she responded, her hands brushing against his chest, rising up to wrap about his neck.   
  
Gently he pulled away, gazing down into Madeline's surprised eyes, and, for a moment, he thought he saw the old blaze in their deep brown depths. He hoped it wasn't a dream and his Madeline was truly standing before him. Operations traced the curve of her cheek before turning away and walking toward his desk, allowing Madeline, and himself, to again retreat behind their respective emotional walls.   
  
Madeline once again closed the distance between them, moving to stand beside his desk. He could feel her steady gaze as she undoubtedly gauged him. "We are getting a code alpha priority one report from John Marks, a level 5 operative out of our subsection in New York. It is coded for your eyes only. Birkoff is transferring it up now. Do you want Michael to stay until we know what this is about, in case he is needed?" Her voice as even and smooth as ever.   
  
When he looked up to meet her eyes, they were cold and calculating and he found himself wondering once more if he had only imagined the warm flicker he had seen before. Looking back to his computer, he called up the message and keyed in his access codes. His heart froze in his chest. With a quick flick of a finger, he cut the image and turned to Madeline.   
  
"No. Send Michael home, but tell him to stay close. He won't be needed for this." With concerted effort and years of practice, Operations managed to keep his voice even and controlled. He sat there allowing Madeline's analyzing gaze for a few moments. "Is there anything else?" he asked simply.   
  
"No," she answered coolly before turning to walk away.   
  
Instinctively, Operations reached out, grabbing her forearm, "Madeline"   
  
Looking over her shoulder at him with blank eyes, she waited for him to continue.   
  
Reluctantly, he released her arm, "Nothing." He watched the fleeting second of confusion and curiosity cross her face and then he saw it again, the brief but intense blaze in her eyes. Somewhere inside her, his Madeline still lived. Silently, he thanked the powers that be for that, knowing he would need the strength and determination he would gain from it in the days ahead. Once she was gone, he turned on his monitor again and gazed in horror at the image, one thought running through his mind: Not again.   
  
  
****  
  
I remember days full of restlessness and fury   
I remember nights that were drunk on dreams   
I remember someone who hungered for the glory   
I remember her, but it seems. . . she's gone . . .   
Where's the girl?   
Where's the girl with the blaze in her eyes?   
Where's the girl with that gaze of surprise?   
Now and then I still dream she's beside me . . .   
Where's the girl   
who could turn on the edge of a knife?   
Where's the girl who was burning for life?   
I can still feel her breathing beside me.   
And I know   
She remembers how fearless it feels   
to take off with the wind at your heels -   
she and I took this world like a storm!   
Come Again!   
Let the girl in your heart tumble free.   
Bring your renegade heart home to me   
in the dark of the morning   
I'll warm you, I'll arouse you. . .   
Marguerite (read Madeline)   
Don't forget that I know who you are   
we were cut from the same surly star   
like two jewels in the night, sharing fire.   
Where's the girl   
so alive and aching for more   
we had dreams that were worth dying for   
we were caught in the eye of the storm!   
Come again!   
Let the girl in your heart tumble free   
bring your renegade heart home to me   
in the dark of the morning   
I'll warm you, I'll arouse you . .   
Where's the girl?   
Is she gazing at me with surprise?   
Do I still see that blaze in her eyes?   
Am I dreaming or is she beside me. . . now. . .?   
"Where's the Girl?" from the Scarlet Pimpernel   
By Wildhorn and Knighton   



	3. Falcon In The Dive

  
Early Nov. 1998  
"Sir?"   
  
The sound of Birkoff's voice broke into his concentration. "What is it Birkoff?" Operations snapped, eyes still focused on the mission profile displayed on the PDA in his hand. On his desk sat several other PDAs - with several situations ready to go volatile, the last thing he needed or wanted was another distraction.   
  
"I've got incoming Intel from Paris - code alpha, priority one. It's coded for your eyes only, sir - from Marks."   
  
Operations froze, then slowly lowered the PDA in his hand, contents forgotten, to his desk. John Marks. The name conjured memories and as yet unrealized nightmares. For over a month, Operations had waited anxiously for an update, the desire to know the truth about a MPEG of a beaten and battered woman growing daily, along with the dread of what the "truth" might mean. Was Nikita still alive? Was this message to confirm her elimination?   
  
A sudden surge of jumbled and unrecognizable emotions - love, hate, fear, dread, anticipation, anger – ran through him. Images bombarded him - of Michael after the Shay's mission, at Nikita's funeral; of Birkoff, after he first received confirmation of Nikita's death, of Walter, after he entered the church where Nikita's funeral was held.   
  
"Send it up. Then delete any record of the file." Operations said, then punched the comm button, closing contact with Birkoff. "Damn!" The words hiss through clenched teeth. Shoving his chair back from his desk, he stood and paced anxiously as the file was transferred to his local system. He was wrong. He had to be - it wasn't her in the MPEG he received a month ago. "Nikita is dead," he thought to himself, even as he felt his heart pounding in his chest.   
  
"Get a hold of yourself," he chastised as he forced himself to stop his prowling. Operations inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled as his mind conjured the one image that always helped him find his center. He imagined Madeline's face, calm and controlled, and her eyes sparkling with mystery.   
  
His heart rate began to slow, his love for Madeline having a calming effect on him. All the pain he had endured - the years in the POW camp, having to walk away from a son and wife he loved - all that seemed to fade in Madeline's presence. She knew him like no one else ever had. She'd seen the darkest, ugliest corners of his soul and never turned away. Her quiet understanding had been his saving grace through more years than he wanted to remember.   
  
Sitting down, he slumped forward. Bracing his elbows on the surface of his desk, Operations lowered his head into his hands, and closed his eyes. For the thousandth time in the last month he sent thanks heavenward that Madeline was still with him - in any way. He had lost count of how many times since Michael's return to Section following Nikita's death that he had stood on his balcony watching the level five op. He wondered again, as he had those times, if he would find the strength to survive losing Madeline as Michael had survived losing Nikita. If he would be able to deal with the stress and pressures of this job without Madeline by his side.   
  
Standing there those countless time, he had been forced to remember all that both he and Michael had lost - the wives and sons they loved to the machinations of others, the knowledge that they had each suffered and died alone - Simone to Glass Curtain and his Emily to cancer.   
  
Madeline had seen him through that - through having to sit and wait for words to cross a computer screen, unable to go to her and Steven. She had never once made him feel awkward for loving both Emily and herself at the same time. He knew that Nikita, almost from day one, had instinctively understood what Michael had needed - and given it to him. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged how integral that had been to Michael's survival of that ordeal. Madeline had been right about her. But then, Madeline usually was.   
  
Again, as it had for the last month, his mind conjured images of Nikita staring him down defiantly as she had when challenging him on several occasions. He couldn't shake the gnawing in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of her. What would happen if she was the captive in the MPEG? He knew that Michael would never believe it had escaped Section, that Nikita's remains had been misidentified, or that they had never performed the DNA verification tests. No one would.   
  
Finally, the high pitched double beep that signaled the completion of the transfer shocked him from the tormenting reverie. Quickly, he keyed up the MPEG, temporarily skipping over the report. More than ever, Operations needing to see for himself if this nightmare was happening. As it was before, the images were dark and somewhat blurred, but he could see the form of a woman lying huddled against a corner. His body shock slightly, as if warding off the damp, bitter cold that seemed to emanate straight from the screen and into his bones. A chill ran down his spine when the woman in the video moaned and the MPEG zeroed in on her, completely revealing her face. Although it was covered in the yellows and purples of old and fresh bruises, the woman was now clearly recognizable. Nikita.   
  
His breath caught as his throat constricted; leaning closer to the screen, his eyes squinted as he scrutinized the image. She appeared at least 20, maybe 30 pounds lighter; her once luminous gold hair was chopped at odd angles, practically shaved in areas. What was left hung dull and lifeless around her face. Even with the bruising and lack of sufficient light, she looked ashen.   
  
Adrenaline surged into his blood; he was suddenly terrified. For a moment, Operations leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to acknowledge that any of his uncertainty and fear were for anyone other than himself or Section. Taking a deep breath, he returned his attention to his monitor and quickly pulled up the report, his hawk-sharp eyes scanning it. The profile provided was efficient, precisely according to protocol, calling for the elimination of the possible threat to Section. Two teams would go in - one to do a surgical on all captives and the second to obtain any computer files that may compromise Section. Both teams would be responsible for eliminating all hostiles present.   
  
With a keystroke, he could approve the profile. Nikita would be eliminated and no one would ever know she hadn't died in that car jacking. Michael would go on, just as strongly as he was now, as would Walter and Birkoff. It was that simple. Operations reached out, his right hand hovering over the keys that would seal Nikita's fate.   
  
He sat, his attention riveted to his quivering hand suspended above the keyboard. Images, memories of Nikita once again bombarded him. Memories of all the occasions that she had saved him or someone he loved - of her decoying Petrosian with the B-12 shot, of her coming through the doors to Madeline's office with the cure for the virus that nearly killed them all, of her voice saying she had recovered Madeline alive from Enquist - reverberated through him. He had even trusted her with something he couldn't trust Michael with - his son.   
  
The air around him seemed to lose all it's heat. Where would he be right now if he had succeeded in destroying Nikita's heart, her compassion, and her soul - the very things that saved him? A fresh chill ran down his spine as he acknowledge that without Nikita's heart, he would have lost both Madeline and Steven. In losing them, he would have lost not only his reason for living, but his means of survival. Without Madeline, he would be well on his way to self-destruction, if he weren't already dead.   
  
An image of Michael, smiling slightly as he talked quietly to Walter in his alcove sprung into his mind. He knew Michael had adapted well to Nikita's loss, somehow finding the strength to move on with his life, but how would Michael survive his tenure as Operations? It was what he was being groomed for, but could he handle it without the quiet and instinctive understanding, without the love, Nikita could provide him?   
  
Sitting back in his chair, he allowed his hand to fall into his lap. Taking a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the report.   
  
The informant had clearly indicated that L'Huere Sanguine was behind Nikita's kidnapping. That they had stumbled across her as they had targeted Anna Roberds and one of their men had recognized Nikita as the one responsible for Rene Dion's death. They had shifted targets then, conspired to take her in such a way as to leave her family certain of her death. The leader of L'Huere Sanguine wanted Nikita to suffer, not just physically, but emotionally. They didn't want Intel, only to inflict pain. They didn't really care who Nikita was, who she worked for or even why she had done what she did. They just wanted her to suffer.   
  
The report went on to detail their treatment of Nikita. From the initial rapes and bullet wound, that had been treated only enough to prevent infection and death, to the days alone in cold damp cell in complete darkness. The report explained how she had only been retrieved from the torpid prison to be shown videos and pictures of her funeral, taunted with images of her grieving husband, family and friends. They were virtually starving her as well. For days on end they would only give her a glass or two of water. The image of her rail-thin, bruised and battered body was testament to that.   
  
By the time he had reached the end of the detailed report, he could feel his body shaking with fear, rage and disgust. His heart grew bitter as his mind replayed the mpeg over and over, Nikita's moaning echoing in his ears, and conjuring the haunting moans of his men in the POW camps of Viet Nam.   
  
L'Huere Sanguine's, or whomever the madman was running the organization now, only had one desire - to cause torment to his operatives - just as the Viet Cong had only wished to torment his men. L'Huere Sanguine had set them up, and Section - he - had fallen for it! The scurrilous phantoms of Michael's past had played them all for fools. It was unacceptable. They had tossed down the gauntlet, and it would not go unanswered. Section - he – would never bend, there was no way in hell he would allow it to continue, especially if there was a slightest chance of Michael ever discovering the truth. It would destroy him. Operations had no intention of losing his top operative - the man he intended to one day hand the reigns of Section to - because of some second-rate, twisted, would-be radicals! No, this time, he would do to them what he could never do to the Viet Cong. He would destroy them, rend them to bits with claws of fire - like a falcon in the dive!   
  
Slamming his hand on the intercom, he demanded, "Birkoff, Get me Paris now. And have a plane ready to take me there in 30 minutes."   
  
Rising from his desk, he prepared to leave his office. He had to talk to Madeline, inform her of his plans to go to Paris.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Birkoff didn't think twice. He automatically went about connecting Operations directly to the head of the Paris substation and then arranged with Transport for Operations' trip to Paris. With those orders complete, Birkoff set about preparing a complete file purge of the transmission from Paris. The program set, the final "Are you sure?" warning flashed on his screen. Leaning back in his seat, he stared at the yet to be deleted file. He had a sinking uneasy feeling. He had only seen Operations in such a state on a few occasions, and two of them had Madeline in direct danger. Checking the proximity signals, he verified that Madeline was indeed safe within Section's wall. His unease increasing, he found himself tempted to open the file, see what it contained that had Operations so unnerved. Reaching out, he held his hand over the confirm key. He could feel his hand shaking, something telling him that the information contained in the file could be vitally important. Twin voices called to him, one desperately asking him to open the file - it was important, he needed to know; the other telling him to leave it alone - to let Operations deal with it. Closing his eyes, he pressed the confirm key and felt his heart sink, like something valuable had just slipped away from him again. It left him shaken and he wished he understood. And he wished Nikita were here.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Operations strode through the egress of the Paris substation, stopping directly in front of the substation director. She was a tall, elegant woman, with dark hair and empty, green eyes. Her navy pantsuit was tailored and stylish. "Good afternoon, Elise." He responded perfunctorily, even as he turned his attention to the American Level 5 op that stood beside her. Focusing his iciest gaze on the brown haired man, he extended his hand for the PDA. Scrolling throughout the information, Operations was forced to contain a biting rage at the audacity of the man to ignore his orders. "I ordered a retrieval."   
  
"Yes sir, I worked it into the profile. If at all possible, we will retrieve the operative."   
  
"You fail to understand. This operative is not acceptable collateral. Nor is she a secondary consideration. She is to be retrieved. I want her and the leader of this organization alive. Destroy everything else. Is that clear?"   
  
"Yes sir. It's clear." The man standing opposite Operations glared back at him, doing little to hide his resentment of being put down in front of others. Operations didn't care. His mind was focused on one goal - retrieving Nikita.   
  
"Good. You have one hour to rework the profile. I want medical and the air ambulance on standby." Pulling a data pad from the breast pocket of his black blazer, he extended it to Marks. "Have them meet us at these coordinates." Turning then, his eyes meet Elise's once again. With a single curt nod, she acknowledged his unspoken command and turned to lead him through the subterranean complex to an office prepared for him.   
  
~~~~~~*~~~~~~  
Two hours later:   
  
Operations repressed the urge to pace, not that the mission van would have provided him the space to do so, had he chosen to. Instead he refocused his attention to the teams' communications as they neared their target. He listened intently to every word, every sound, waiting for them to find her.   
  
Finally, a disembodied voice came across t the system. "Team one to leader, We've got her. She conscious, but barely." In the background, he could hear a second, female voice whispering in a somewhat soothing tone. "It's okay. We here to take you home."   
  
"Home?" a soft, garbled, horse voice whispered, the words laced with awe and confusion. Somehow it was not the response Operations had expected. Silently, he noted the rustling sounds caused by the operative helping Nikita stand, and wrapping a thermal blanket from the field kit around her body. He tracked their progress on the monitor, inwardly cringing at each moan or cry that drifted across the comlinks from Nikita. He barely registered team two's comments about the leader not being found.   
  
As the operatives approached the van, Operations flung the door open, prepared to assist Nikita into the van. The sight before him shocked him to his core. Somehow, even after the MPEGS and the reports, he had convinced himself that Nikita would to be moving under her own power. That she would come through this as she had come through so many other trials: scathed and battered but still vital and defiant. Seeing her, totally supported by the two operatives rushing toward him, an emaciated being only vaguely resembling the valkryie he had expected, caused a familiar fear to rear its head.   
  
Shoving the fear aside, he reached out and pulled Nikita into his arms. Hoisting her into the van, he carried her to the back and gently set her down in the area prepared for her medical care. Gingerly, he began to remove the thermal blanket he had insisted each team carry, then the wet and soiled remnants of her cloths. He scanned her body mechanically, noticing immediately how her skin had become pale, thin, and dry to his touch. Everywhere, her bones protruded through the skin. Unable to look at the destruction wrought on the once beautiful woman, he helped the medics wrap her gently in clean blankets. Sitting back, he watched the medic momentarily as he prepared to insert the IV that would provide Nikita with live saving liquids.   
  
Then, for the first time, looked up into her face and found his eyes unexpectedly locked with her tearing, blue ones. Something in her eyes pierced through him and he reached out, taking one of her hands in his, extending his free hand to gently brush a few strands of hair away from her face. He was horrified to find that the quick, small motion had caused quite a clump of her hair to fall out in his hands. Quickly, he turned startled eyes up to the medic, who calmly nodded his head, indicating he had seen.   
  
"I expected as much, sir." The medic whispered, not wanting to draw more attention to what had occurred.   
  
Bewildered, Operations stared at the man, his attention finally drawn away by a small squeeze on his hand. He steeled his face to hide his horror as he turned his attention back to Nikita. He watched as her lips formed words her failing voice could give no sound to.   
  
"Michael?"   
  
"He's fine, Ni-kita." Seeing the disbelief in her face, he continued, "He wasn't at first, but he is now. Thanks to Walter." He paused, knowing, somehow his words were wrong.   
  
He watched as Nikita slowly nodded - her body tense and shaking. "Thank you." she whispered.   
  
A sudden jarring of the van shocked Operations. He had been so intent on Nikita that he hadn't realized the van was even moving. Looking back down at Nikita, he was the first to notice the slow and total exhale of breath. He waited, time seeming impossible slow, - she didn't inhale. "Nikita!" He grabbed for her arms, instinctively wanting to shake her.   
  
A pair of strong arms pulled him back, as the Medic and a second operative moved over Nikita, and began the precisely timed movements of CPR. He felt like he had waited an eternity before he heard the Medic breathe the words, "Got her back."   
  
The grasp on his arms lessened and turned around to face John Marks. From behind him he heard the Medic continue, "She's stabilized - for now. She is in pretty bad shape, sir." Operations turned back, Marks forgotten, and stared at the young medic.   
  
Finally he turned his attention back to the woman who lay before him and took her hand in his once again. In a stone cold voice, speaking to no one in particular, he said, "No one says a word about what has happened. No mention of the objective of this mission, who was retrieved or anything that has transpired here. If so much as a rumor gets out, you are all canceled. Is that clear?" He didn't wait for or even expect a response. Sitting back against the side of the van, he drew Nikita's cold form against him. Focusing on the shallow cadence of her breathing, he offered her what comfort and reassurance he could, bidding his time until they reached the air ambulance.   
  
  
****  
  
Hunt for the man!   
Comb the city!   
Ev'ry street! Ev'ry Grate!   
Set a Guard at ev'ry gate!   
Drag him out!   
Shout the moment that you find him!   
Damn!   
. . .How the devil do I   
ever prevail when I am only a man?   
But I'll never be duped by this scurrilous phantom again . . .   
I wasn't born to walk on water   
I wasn't born to sack and slaughter   
but on my sould I wasn't born   
to stoop to scorn and knuckle under.   
A man can learn to steal some thunder   
A man can learn to work some wonder   
and when the gauntlets down, it's time   
rise and climb the sky.   
. . .yes a man grows older   
but his soul remains alive   
and those tremulous stars still glitter   
and I will survive   
Let my heart grow colder   
and as bitter as a falcon in the dive   
There was a dream - a dying ember   
There was a dream - I don't remember. . .   
But I will resurrect that dream   
Though rivers stream and hill grow steeper   
For here in hell, where life gets cheaper   
oh, here in hell, the blood runs deeper   
and when the final duel is near,   
I'll lift my spear and fly   
Piercing into the sky and higher!   
And the strong will thrive!   
Yes, the weak will cower   
Will the fittest will survive   
. . .These are the days!   
Yes!   
Days of glory! Days of rage!   
And the dream -   
and the dream of Paris preys   
on my bones -   
gnawing night and day and -   
clawing through my brain . . .   
-Experts of Falcon in the Diveby Frank Wildhorn and Nan Knighton. (and performed by T. Mann) 


	4. Bring Him Home

Leaning back in her chair, Madeline dropped her head forward releasing the tension in her neck. Tension that recently seemed to be ever present. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was the same feeling she had had after Nikita's death - the knot in stomach that accompanied the sense that she was missing something. It had taken over a month for Madeline to exhaust her suspicions and finally let them, and Nikita, rest. Now that gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach was back.   
  
Madeline closed her eyes. She needed to find the answers. Taking a deep breath, she focused her mind inward, backward in time a day, to the encounter with Operations that had triggered the rebirth of her unease.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
The whoosh of her office door opening without the standard announcements immediately informed Madeline as to who had entered her office. Her features schooled into an impassive mask, She had looked up to greet Operations in her usual manner.   
  
"Good Morning." Her tone was as usual - direct, purposeful, and even. Her eyes automatically performed the perfunctory scan of his body as she mentally accessed his disposition. She recognized the inordinate amount of tension in his stance which reminded her of a coiled rattler ready to strike at its victims. His eyes burned with frustration, anger, and wariness, - not only of her, but, it seemed, of life.   
  
"I'm going to Paris. I have some unfinished business. I should be gone a week. You can reach me at the Paris substation if I am needed. I trust you can handle things while I am gone."   
  
The curt, harsh edge in his voice sent warning signals blaring in Madeline's mind. He was holding something back. Her mind twisted around as she analyzed the possibilities.   
  
"Of course. Is there something I should know?" Madeline responded fluidly.   
  
For a moment, his grey-blue eyes had softened and she read in his regretful and pained expression his desire to confide in her - but, instead his expression cooled as he distanced himself from her.   
  
"No. I'll contact you from Paris."   
  
With a final wistful glance, Operations turned and walked from her office.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
A two-toned beep emanating form her workstation terminal drew her from the images swirling in her mind. The pale, blue eyes of her long time companion still haunted her, hovering in the back of her mind, leaving Madeline to sit wondering what had happened? Something major was troubling him, yet no mission - pending or otherwise - could account for his behavior.   
  
Executing a series of breathing exercises to calm, clear and focus her mind, she thought back, attempting to identify when Operations' behavior could be categorized as "normal". For the past month he had been reclusive - an oddity in itself - and seemed to be avoiding her, keeping his distance. There were times, when she would look at him and see the loneliness in his eyes, but he always pulled away. It was uncharacteristic and it worried her.   
  
Her lips curled slightly, remembering his consternation over Nikita's mission to the small, quiet beach town. He had been annoyed that a simple favor was taking so long, and that he was wasting one, sometimes two, of his "best operatives" on such a low priority situation. She hadn't been able to resist pointing out to him his own statement – that he had called Nikita one of his best. Operations had given her his typical "peeved" look and waved it away. "Nikita is good," he had said, "but she is still annoying and insubordinate." She had suspected then that he missed having Nikita around. He enjoyed having her challenge him if for no other reason than it gave him someone to yell at.   
  
It was later that day that Michael had called, requesting back-up teams to search for Nikita. In less than 24 hours, Nikita was dead. Operations hadn't been truly "normal" since. She had expected him to have some remorse or regrets – to mourn her in his own way and time –and then to snap back. And, for a while, it seemed he was doing exactly that. Then, for no reason she could identify, he had become more withdrawn.   
  
Madeline hated not knowing what had happened, what was causing Paul to withdraw - even from her. Why wasn't he confiding in her?   
  
Because you pushed him away, chastised him for reaching out emotionally, called it a weakness and scorned him because of it. Her own voice echoed through her mind. She felt sudden fear twist in her gut. She could see the strain on him; he wasn't a man to keep things bottled up, and having shut him out she left him with no one else to turn to? She felt regret - remorse – sink into her heart. Had she, in her attempt to protect everything they had fought so many years to accomplish, managed to destroy it?   
  
A clear, calm certainty settled over her. She felt the gnawing in the pit of her stomach that had been reawakened by her encounter with Operations days before begin to quell. She simply would not let it happen. Somehow she would find a way to fix whatever was wrong. If he wouldn't tell her, she would use other methods. She would find her answers and God help whomever got in her way. Tapping the intercom button for systems, she called, "Birkoff. I need to see you in my office. Now. "   
  
**************  
"What the hell was taking so long?" The thought ran through Operations' head as he finally gave into the urge to pace that had plagued him all day. Rising from his seat to prowl the small waiting room, he began to second-guess his decision to bring Nikita to a civilian facility. While he still believed his reasoning had been sound, he regretted his limited immediate resources. He desperately wanted to grab some passing orderly or nurse and demand answers.   
  
He forced himself to stop pacing and look out a nearby window. He knew his decision was right, regardless of the "limited resources." The chance of detection - by his own people or Oversight - if he had taken her to a Section facility was too high. Nor could he chance the repercussions if she was discovered and he was forced to order her cancellation. No, this was for the best. The Holtzenberg Clinic was amongst the best in the world and due to their unique clientele, it was unusually secure and discrete.   
  
Operations swung around at the slight creak of door hinges, hoping to face the white-haired doctor who had greeted him at the air ambulance and finally have the answers he needed. Instead, standing in the doorway was an average sized, unremarkable man, with graying black hair. Out of the corner of his eye, Operations watched the two operatives that guarded him each step closer, a visible warning to the unknown intruder.   
  
"Uh- I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here. I just needed to get out of the public waiting area. Do you mind?" The man stammered, his frightened eyes jumping from Operations to the guards and back again.   
  
A quick appraisal told Operations that the man was no threat. He could feel the overwhelming despair that seemed to radiate from him. He signaled the operatives to stand down, then turned back to the visitor, gesturing to the stranger to take a seat before returning his gaze to the window. His brusque manner intended to discourage the man from asking any more questions.   
  
The room lapsed into a silence that wrapped itself protectively around each individual and time seemed to slow. Again, the metallic sound of hinges moving as the door opened shattered the sheltering silence. Operations turned his head just as a tall, young, blond man wearing green surgical scrubs entered and looked anxiously first at Operations and his two companions, then at the dark haired stranger. Years of watching people told Operations that whatever the man came to say, he didn't anticipate it being well, or happily, received. He could feel the tensions tightening his muscles. "Excuse me, which of you is Mr. Jonathon Grant?" The newcomer spoke, his voice heavily accented.   
  
As Operations looked away, the relief that washed over him was palpable - a startling and unwelcome revelation.   
  
From his place by the window, Operations listened the nervous young doctor walked toward Jonathon Grant and sat across from him. He could visualized Jonathon Grant's shoulders tensing, leaving him frozen, only to slowly sag under the weight of his grief. The doctor's explanation finally ceased. The room seemed to hold its breath - as if even the inanimate objects waited for the torrent of emotions that were sure to come next.   
  
"She's dying. My daughter is dying. That's what you're really saying." While Jonathan Grant's words were soft and unsteady, they were loud enough for Operations to hear and as the man's voice broke on the word daughter, he felt an invisible hand grip him by the throat. It was an emotion he - and every parent - recognized. The fear and pain associated with losing a child. He knew all to well how that one fear could take literal control of you – make every thing else in the world seem inconsiquential. When his own son, Stephen had been threatened by one of Section's missions, his fear had overridden all other concerns and he had turned to Nikita – not Michael – to save him. He had instinctively know that he could place the things he care most for in the world into her hands and she would protect them. Operations turned back to the view out the window, hoping he would find something outside to distract his mind away from the turbulent emotions that careered through him.   
  
In the background he could hear the stranger as he his pain poured out of him, "We fought this morning. We're always fighting. My Nicole is . . . 16 years old, . . . but she's so headstrong. So stubborn." Mr. Grant's voice broke again before falling finally into a whisper. "She always has to be right. Never seeing beyond the now," he inhaled sharply and deeply, his exhaled breath emerging in a staccato fashion. "She was so angry with me, so annoyed. " Operations listened as the man paused again, this time biting back a sob, "I just want her to walk through that door and start fighting with me." His voice quivered and he stopped.   
  
The young doctor took a steadying breath, "Mr. Grant. Your daughter did survive the surgery. She's in very critical condition. I don't want to give you false hope, however, if your Nicole is half as headstrong and stubborn as you say, I think she has a chance. Don't give up on her yet. Just. . . just make sure she knows how much you want her around. "   
  
From behind him, Operations head the rustle of fabric as the doctor stood and walked to the door. It creaked again as it opened, causing a slight draft before it closed. Silence, once again, settled uneasily over the room, leaving each person to their private reflections. While Operations was very aware of the Jonathon Grant's stuttered breathing, his battle to control his sobs, he was more aware of his own reactions to the man's words. He found himself reliving all their confrontations and all the disappointing moments in recent briefings when no one had offered him a challenge. He realized he had come to expect it - even desire it. It kept him sharp, kept others sharp. Nikita made him think, and she never failed to remind him of their true purpose, even when it was most inconvenient.   
  
Operation's mind was once again consumed with memories. He remembered clearly the frustration he had felt watching Lauren spar with Michael. She had been everything he wanted in an operative, yet she hadn't measured up. Grudgingly, Operations admitted to himself that Nikita, for all the times she annoyed and aggravated him, she would never have been able to do so if he hadn't cared. Somehow, somewhere along the line, a small, hidden part of himself must have recognized something in her. Like Madeline, she made him feel. And, unlike so many others, Nikita never backed down from him. He admitted to himself what he would never admit to another - he had missed her.   
  
The swish of the door against the rug drew his attention. Looking up, Operations recognized the white-haired gentleman that entered the room - Dr. Helfgolt. Operations immediately walked to stand before him, getting straight to the point, he asked, "Doctor, how is Nikita?"   
  
The doctor stared at him. Operations got the distinct impression that his own mental state was being accessed. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Dr. Helfgolt quietly gestured toward the two seats off to a corner of the room that faced each other over a small table.   
  
Operations followed the doctor, choosing the chair that that backed to the wall. He clasped his hands tightly in his lap.   
  
"Mr. Winston," Dr. Helfgolt began, his voice soft and soothing. "I am sure you understand how extreme your daughter's condition is. She's suffering from a myriad of conditions - most notably the dehydration and starvation. At this time, we are still trying to ascertain the full extent of the damage done to her system."   
  
Operations found that even though the doctor's voice remained in the same trained, soothing tone, it sounded ominous in his ears. He noted the increase in his heart rate - almost as if it were happening to someone else.   
  
"Your daughter's dehydration," Dr. Helfgolt continued, "has resulted in a condition known as Hypernatremia. What that means is that due to the dehydration, her blood sodium levels are extremely high. Nikita's blood work also indicates the possibility that her kidneys have shut down." Dr. Helfgolt paused in his explanation, as if waiting to see if Operations understood the situation. "We have begun treating the Hypernatremia. It is very important that we reduce her sodium levels slowly to prevent any permanent brain damage. Once her fluid and sodium levels are normal, we will begin dialysis to clean her blood of toxins. We are hopeful that once her body fluids, BUN and creatine levels - the blood toxin levels - are corrected her kidneys will resume functioning. I am sure you know that the next 24 hours will be critical. I am sorry, but until then I really can't even give you any indication of what you will be facing if she survives."   
  
Operations felt like a metal band had been placed around his heart as the doctor outlined Nikita's condition, his final words causing the band to constrict mercilessly. It became difficult to take more than a shallow breath. The implications of the doctor's words barreled down on him– the possibility of permanent kidney and brain damage. Damage that would not kill her, but would render her useless to Section. After everything that had happened, would he still have to cancel her?   
  
Operations wanted slumped forward in his chair – to lower his head into in his hands – but he refused to give into the desire. He forced himself to regulate his breathing, willing himself to calm. He felt a sudden, intense anxiety but he didn't have time to dwell on it now. He would have to analyze it later, right now he need this doctor to understand what his options were. Raising his head and straightening his posture, he locked his ice-blue eyes on the dark ones that belonged to Doctor Helfgolt.   
  
"If?" He questioned, the full force of his venom rippling through the air with the single word. Sliding forward in his chair, Operations closed the distance between himself and the doctor. He allowed his anger and fear to radiate through his cold voice, "There is no "If," Doctor. You had better see that Nikita does survive – with no permanent damage. Are we clear?"   
  
While the logical portion of his brain rankled at how unrealistic his demand was – he didn't care. Operations was keenly aware of the involuntary shiver that ran through the doctor - quite familiar with the look of fear that shaded the man's eyes. He was silently thankful that he had the forethought to make arrangements with the hospital administrator concerning Nikita's treatment and protection. There was no doubt that Doctor Helfgolt was completely aware of possible repercussions of his failure to just what was asked of him.   
  
"We have her in a private ICU room. Would you like to see her?" The doctor stammered.   
  
"Yes."   
  
**************  
Operation's footsteps echoed through the halls as he walked the final yards to the room where one of his best operatives lay. Each click of his heels against the linoleum flooring seemed to reverberate through him, a physical accompaniment to the anxiety that seized and grew with each footfall. The nearer he came to the door, the more demanding the memories became.   
  
He could hear Dr. Helfgolt describing to him what he would see when he entered Nikita's room. He went into vivid detail about the machines, tubes, and wires that were connected to her. But nothing Dr. Helfgolt said as he escorted him to the room prepared him for what he saw when he entered the room.   
  
The vibrant, defiant, force of nature that he had considered the bane of his existence was now a pallid and fragile figure splayed out on the stark, white hospital bed in the center of a large, sterile room. Quaking raked his body as he listened to the to pumping and wheezing of the ventilator, the subtle beeping of the heart monitors, and the continuous hum of the machines that controlled the intravenous pumps. His stomach turned at the sight of the catheter and large needles that ran into Nikita's body and were imbedded in her slack, lifeless arms. The catheter in a vein near the sub-clavicle bone carried a white fluid, the Total Parental Nutrition, which, he knew from the Doctor supplied Nikita with all the essential elements for survival - proteins, vitamins, electrolytes and other nutrients. Several other IV bags hung suspended over her, tubes leading to yet another needle in her arm, providing her with a steady flow of antibiotics, sedatives and god only knew what else.   
  
Closing his eyes, he found himself remembering the terror of Madeline's kidnapping and his secret relief when Nikita had disobeyed orders and set out to save both Michael and Madeline. He remembered the feel of Madeline in his arms as he counted and evaluated her every breath in fear that it would be the last as a virus slowly killed her, praying Nikita and Michael would find the antibiotic in time. He struggled to repress the tears that came to his eyes as he how terrified he had felt that day. He remembered the look on Nikita's face when she walked through the door to Madeline's office, saw him cradling her on the floor. Her eyes had reflected concern and understanding as she had injected first Madeline, then him, with the antibiotic. He could hear her voice, cold steel as she demanded Medlab send help immediately to Madeline, no excuses. He remembered standing in the hall outside of Medlab and hearing several operatives gossiping about him and what he had done to get to Madeline, then her voice, Nikita's, telling them in no uncertain terms to 'shut up and mind their own business'. A weary smile curled his lips. Considering the way the operatives had scattered, he had no doubt that she had looked like an avenging Valkrye.   
  
When he had opened his eyes, he returned his gaze to Nikita's emaciated form, and found himself biting back at the tightness in his chest and the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He owed her. He owed Michael. And for all his own protestations, he found that he cared. Somehow she had managed, in some bizarre, twisted way, to endear herself to him. He silently wondered when it had happened.   
  
Slowly he had walked toward the bed, halting to stand at her side. Cautiously, he reached down and took her hand gingerly in his, careful not to disturb the blood oximeter that fitted over one of her fingers. It felt dry and ice cold and only managed to heighten his awareness of how precariously close she teetered on the edge. Unnerved, he turned to leave, and then reconsidered. Instead, he reached for a nearby chair and dragged it to the bed and sat down.   
  
Shifting Nikita's hand so he held it between both of his, he lowered his head to rest on them and closed his eyes. He sat that way for a few moments, struggling within himself. Overall, he wasn't a religious or even remotely spiritual man. He had seen - done - far too much in his life to accept the idea easily of a merciful and loving father. Yet, in his darkest moments, when all else failed, he could hear the songs and stories of his childhood faith drifting up from his memory to anchor and comfort him.   
  
Dear God, he prayed, I doubt I have the right to ask, but please - send her back to us, heal her. I know she deserves to find some peace but she is young, so young, and we need her. Michael needs her. . . . I need her. I am getting older, and I have cheated your judgement too many times already. When I am gone, it will be Michael's turn to continue the fight. He will need her strength, her compassion and support to survive. Please don't take her from us.   
  
Slowly he opened his eyes again, and sat back in the chair and stared at Nikita. For a while, he just sat silently - listening and watching as the ventilator forced air into her lungs. On their walk toward the room, the doctor had told him to talk to her, that he believed she was strong willed enough to fight - so long as she still wanted to live. Knowing what he had put Nikita through, he doubted that she did. Somehow, he had to find the words to make her understand, to make her want to come back.   
  
"I'm probably the last person you expected to come for you." The sound of his voice shocked him as it broke the deathly stillness of the room. "I don't understand exactly why I did it myself. Except that I owed you, Nikita. For Steven. For Madeline. I know your intentions - your motivation - was never protecting, or helping me, but I'm grateful." He had paused. Staring at her, still holding her hand, he had tried to find the words, a way, to make her believe him. Finally, tired of fighting himself and the world, he, for the first time in 20 years, let the words simply fall from his lips.   
  
"That is not entirely true. When I first learned what had really happened to you, I was angry. Angry that I had been fooled, angry at the potential backlash it could cause, that some second rate terrorist could ruin everything I had worked so hard for - but I also found that I was angry at what had been done to you." He paused, exhaling slowly, "I know what it's like to love someone in Section, Nikita. I know what it is to fear for them. The feeling that they are your connection to what makes life livable. The feeling that if they die, the only thing left alive in you dies with them. It can make you desperate, and the loss . . . the loss can destroy you. I have spent a lot of time watching Michael since we lost you. He was devastated Nikita. I am not sure how he pulled himself together, but I do know he still loves you. I see it in his eyes. He needs you - the way I need Madeline. Someday, Michael will have my job, and when that day comes, he will need your strength and support.   
  
On impulse, he had risen from his chair, leaned close over her. Raising her chilled hand to his lips, he had gently kissed her knuckles. "Come home to us, Nikita. We need you." He whispered into her ear, then carefully set her hand to rest beside her.   
  
Straightening, he quietly left the room.   
  
**************  
Standing just outside Nikita's hospital door, Operations wondered what he would find inside. He prayed that she was improving. Prayed that today, he would finally hear the words that would free him from the constant fear that his rescue had come too late - that the damage done to Nikita was - by Section standards – too great.   
  
Pushing the door open, he found himself taken aback by the presence of several doctors and nurses.   
  
"Ah, Mr. Winston. You are just in time. Your daughter seems to have decided to turn a corner," Dr. Helfgolt said in a jubilant tone.   
  
"How so, Doctor?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded wary.   
  
"Well, it appears that her kidney function is improving. We'll decrease the dialysis treatments for now, and continue to monitor the blood toxin levels. We also lowered her ventilator level, and she seems to have adapted well. If she continues to improve at this rate, we may have her off the ventilator and dialysis by the end of the week. "   
  
Operations found himself amazed at the range of emotion that swept through him – relief at Nikita's continued recovery - and fear of the reprisals he knew would be coming soon. Suddenly hesitant, he walked over to Nikita's beside and gently wrapped his hand around hers, feeling the warmth that had finally begun to return to her still ghostly-pale skin.   
  
"Thank you, Doctor, " Operations said, his eyes never wavering from Nikita. "You've done incredible work."   
  
"Your daughter did all the work, sir. My team and I just offered her what assistance we could."   
  
Operations nodded his head, acknowledging the sincerity he heard in the doctor's voice. Releasing Nikita's hand, he grabbed the chair from the corner of her room and pulled it to h45 bedside. Settling himself, he waited as the medical staff quietly exited the room. Once alone, he pulled a scrambling device from his pocket and activated it.   
  
Reaching out, he took hold of Nikita's hand. Gently rubbing his thumb across her palm, he realized how oddly comforting he found the tactile contact. Actually, the visits as a whole had become a comfort to him. With Nikita unconscious, he found himself saying things he thought he would never admit aloud.   
  
"Well, Nikita. Birkoff finally did it. He asked to be assigned his own apartment. I wasn't going to allow it, but Madeline thought we should, so . . . yesterday, on his 23rd birthday . . . Birkoff moved out." Operations paused, gathering his thoughts. "I had hoped that Madeline would assign him your old apartment. I figured, by the time you returned, he would have had enough of living alone and easily give it up to you and I would have him back a section full-time. Leave it to Madeline to interfere. She gave your apartment to a level 1 op who just completed his training." He paused for a moment, watching Nikita's even intake and exhale of breath. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a small earpiece and placed it snugly in Nikita's ear. "I made a recording of Michael and Walter at Birkoff's first night in his new apartment. It's quite amusing actually. Birkoff and Walter really know how what they are doing when it comes to teasing Michael. I should warn you though, it does get a bit maudlin for a while. They still miss you, Nikita. "   
  
He tapped the small device once and then sat back and for the next fifteen minutes, silently studied the blonde woman, wondering if she was aware of anything said in the room.   
  
**************  
Late November  
Everyday, on his regular visits to the hospital, Operations watched Nikita's painful struggle. It wasn't obvious to anyone just passing by, but he could see it - or rather feel it. Everyday, he watched for even the slightest sign of improvement - she never disappointed him. But the improvements were small and he knew as only one who had been there could, the price her soul paid for each minuscule proverbial step away from the peace of death.   
Looking out from his perch, Operations stared beyond the even, methodical movements of those below. Today was the end of one chapter of Nikita's struggle - and the beginning of another. Dr. Helfgolt had called to tell him that Nikita was beginning to regain consciousness. Over the last weeks, he had watched as she clawed her way back and not for a minute did he doubt that she would wake up, and full recover--regardless of how Dr. Helfgolt had cautioned him. Dr. Helfgolt didn't know Nikita.   
  
She would need help, though, to continue to recover. More help than he could give her. More help than the realities of Section would allow him to give her. Operations had spent the last few hours trying to work out a way to approach Madeline - to tell her that Nikita was alive. Yet the more he thought on it, the more unsettled he felt. Finally, he gave up. He pushed himself away from his ledge and exited his office.   
  
As Operations walked across the catwalk to the stairs that would lead him to staging area, he spotted Michael leaning over Birkoff's shoulder. He watched as Birkoff straightened his shoulders and cocked his head. His lips quirked into a smile when he saw the hand Michael had rested on the back of Birkoff's chair fly up and smack Birkoff in the back of his head. He watched as Birkoff dipped his head forward, the swung his body around to look up at Michael, his expression a mix of annoyance, curiosity and amusement. He watched as a wide grin spread across his face. Even from the distance, Operations knew if to be a pure, genuine reaction. Turning his gaze to look at Michael, and found him smiling.   
  
They had finally moved on with their lives without Nikita. In a bizarre twist, he found it comforting to know he had not been entirely wrong in his assessment of his operatives. Operations made a mental note to talk to Madeline about Michael's and Birkoff's efficiency ratings, but he had a suspicion that both were performing at or above there highest ratings. How would Nikita's return affect that? All things he would have to talk to Madeline about - this would be a delicate situation.   
  
As he walked down the stairs and his eyes drifted to Walter's alcove. He stood at his workbench, working, as he always was, with some gadget. Across from him stood an empty stool. How would he react to the news that Nikita lived? How would her experience affect him? Did memories of their shared prison camp experience still haunt him during the long nights?   
  
"What do you want?"   
  
The brisk, curt tone snapped Operations out of his musing. He found himself standing in front of Walter's workstation.   
  
"Come with me," Operations said, not quite sure why, but this one last time, he followed his gut.   
  
"Where to?" Walter's tone remained quarrelsome, distrusting.   
  
Operations looked down at his hands, and for a moment he could feel Nikita's still frail hand clutching at his reflexively. He knew she was strong enough to make it back, but she was going to need help and support and he doubted she would take it from him. Aside from Michael, Walter was the only they both could trust.   
  
Turning to face Walter, he dropped his cold mask into place, allowed his voice to cool to ice, "Don't ask questions. Just do what your told." Turning his back, he strode forward leading the way out of Section one.   
  
**************  
Walter remembered staring out the front windshield at the deceptively peaceful facade of the exclusive, private hospital. The well-manicured grounds seemed to blossom with life, even in the cold, dead of winter. The very facade contradicted the valiant struggles that existed within its walls.   
  
Nikita is alive. He said the words to himself again, his mind struggling to accept what the man beside him was saying - to accept what this man had done. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that Operations was still talking, and that they had left the car, yet he didn't really hear him or register his changing surroundings.   
  
"How long?" The words should choked and horse to Walter's ear, the voice oddly unfamiliar and even though it was his own.   
  
"A month." The answer was simple, flat.   
  
Anger surged through Walter. A month! He turned then, faced Operations, his vision red with unfocused rage. "You've known she was alive for a month and you just let us suffer thinking she was dead?" The words were low and vicious and screamed with violence intent.   
  
"Don't make judgements on things you know nothing about. You weren't here, you don't know. She's been here a month and only today has she shown signs of regaining consciousness. Up until last week, I didn't even know if she would regain full use of her kidneys. We still don't know if there will be any lasting nerve, organ or muscle damage."   
  
Walter didn't the words, he was too angry and deep down, ashamed as well. Nikita was alive, when all rights - be they nature or Section ordained - she should be dead. The fact that she lived was all that mattered. Slowly, the anger ebbed away, leaving only hurt and resignation. "Just take me to her."   
  
"I am." The words were bitter and cold. Operations turned on his heel and continued down the long hall. He came to a door, and without pause or any other indication, he opened the door and entered, shutting it behind him.   
  
Standing at the closed door, Walter shut his eyes. He strained to hear any indication of life on the other side, waiting to hear even a whispered word for Nikita's mouth.   
  
The door opened, and a smiling, middle-aged woman with brown hair and kind, light-brown eyes almost walked into him as she tried to leave the room. He vaguely registered her apology, but as she slipped past him time stopped.   
  
Sitting on the edge of the bed, and leaning slightly over her, Operations blocked his view of Nikita. All Walter could see was the thin, ashen hand that lay gently on her stomach and clasped in the Operations' hand. He was talking to her in a voice that contained a lulling quality Walter had long forgotten.   
  
He remembered it now. He'd last heard it in the POW camps when Operations - Paul - had used it to help focus, soothe and encourage his men, to keep them hanging on - to keep them surviving. It was the voice of a man he had found convenient to forget had ever existed.   
  
He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost missed it - the subtle movement of her hand, the tighten of her grasp around Paul's hand, the sound of her head shifting on the pillow as she turned toward his voice. She mumbled something unintelligible - seeming to grow distressed. Paul's body shifted as he reached up toward her face, perhaps to stroked back her hair. He continued to talk to her, and from his distance across the room he could barely hear Nikita's soft murmuring as she settled back into a peaceful oblivion.   
  
Walter found himself drawn across the room only to frozen at his first real sight of her. For a moment, one horrible moment, he thought he was too late. She lay so deathly still and quiet. None of the energy he associated with her was evident in any way.   
  
Feeling eyes focused on him, Walter slowly turned his head and looked straight into the blue eyes of a man he wanted to hate. For the first time in more years than he wanted to count, Walter was forced to acknowledge something in the other man's eyes – something human and pained. He watched as Operations – Paul - shifted his attention back to Nikita. Leaning forward, he caressed her face and then leaned forward and whispered softly into her ear.   
  
Standing, Operations turned to face him. The slowly, he extended the hand he still had clasped around Nikita's toward him and gently placed her hand in Walter's. A shadowed expression passed over Operations' face and Walter could feel the other man's reluctance to let go even as he withdrew his hand from Nikita's – leaving her hand resting solely in Walter's palm.   
  
Nikita shifted unconsciously in her sleep and Walter turned his attention back to ward Nikita. Gently he began to talk softly to her, "Shhh. Nikita. It's okay, Walter's here, Sugar. I'm here." A cool draft of air brushed across the back of his neck. Looking up, Walter watched the door to the room close behind the retreating figure. "Well, all be, Sugar. You did it again – melted another heart of ice."   
  
  
****  
  
Inspired by the Song "Bring Him Home" in Les Miz 


	5. Without You

Early December  
Birkoff sat staring intently ahead - yet totally unfocused on the images and words that scrolled across his monitor. His mind was occupied with the sudden realization that the way he had encapsulated his life had changed again. He didn't measure his life in years really. Years had little meaning in a place where people came and went - died so young and so early in their "careers." He had known for a while that his life was measured instead by events - pre-Section, and in-Section. He figured most of his co-workers measured their lives similarly.   
  
Except for him it went further. The "in-Section" life was segmented as well. There were distinct and easily categorized differences: pre-Nikita, pre-Shays Mission, post-Shays, and now post-Nikita. Life pre-Nikita had merely been an existence to him. He had people he cared about, but no real connections. Walter had always been kind to him; Madeline had nurtured him as much as he probably had needed to adjust to life in Section, without his family - without his mother. He had only been 14 years old.   
  
Even Ops and Michael had helped him ease into his new life. Both had allowed, even fostered, his view of them in a father/brother role respectively. They had guided him through his entry into Section life instead of subjecting him to the standard two year training. They had managed to give him a sense of himself, his place in the organization.   
  
And then came Nikita. The first time he saw her walk across the staging area his hormones went crazy. The first time she turned her blue eyes up to him, her inquisitive nature shining through at him, his heart jumped. But it wasn't her looks that made him fall for her - it was her nature. She was warm, and loving. She was always there for a friend. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. He loved her. She had become his first real, adult friend.   
  
And then life had come crashing down around him. He'd seen Nikita begin to unravel, knew she was a ticking bomb. He'd believed that Michael would help her, save her, fix her - like he had done countless times before. Only he couldn't - or at least that is what Birkoff had initially thought. Nikita's death in that warehouse had been a living nightmare; compounded by the impact her absence had on so many people. Michael fell apart. Walter became withdrawn. Madeline lost any semblance of warmth she had ever possessed. And for the first time, Birkoff saw Operations as an unfeeling monster.   
  
It was just after the mission to recover Nikita from the Freedom League that Birkoff had discovered the transmissions Michael had been sending to Nikita's PDA. It had changed so much about how he viewed Michael. When he thought Michael had let Nikita die, he had been angry - he couldn't understand how Michael could just let it happen. He'd even hated the cold op for a while. At least until Michael's deterioration became so evident. Knowing Michael had tried to save her and then had to live alone with the fear he had failed shined a light on Michael's behavior and self-hatred. Birkoff couldn't imagine the pain Michael must have felt believing that he had failed and sent the woman he loved to fiery death a second time.   
  
Although Nikita's return brought light back to his life, and to Walters, it didn't really change the others. Oh, Michael did regain his abilities, but he had lost what little spark of life he allowed others to see - almost like he was afraid of how much he felt to ever let those feelings see the light of day again. Madeline stayed an ice-queen as well. She had always had a cold side - it was a necessity in her job, but she had also had a warmer side. Birkoff had benefitted from it on occasion, and he could remember how she would smile sometimes in amusement or pride. She didn't do that anymore.   
  
And then came the Roberds Mission - and Nikita's death. Sometimes it was still so unreal to him. He kept expecting to turn around and see her at one of the terminals, or on her stool in Walter's area, or standing outside Michael's door. He knew in time he would adjust fully to the change. Life went on, and this time - for the first time - he had been allowed to grieve for what he had lost. They all had. And they were all healing.   
  
Even Michael was slowly returning to himself - or rather becoming someone new, but whole. It had started with cuff to the back of Birkoff's head when he made a smart-ass remark, and later there was the half-hidden smile.   
  
And then there was the laugh. The team had been en route to a mission; Michael was in the back double-checking the munitions. They had a new op, Kate, with them - a young girl on her first "hot op." She had been clearly terrified, and one look at Ken with her deep brown eyes was all the encouragement the operative had needed. Ken started telling her "Nikita" stories, and before long most of the team was in on it. Their attention was so focused on their memories, and the laughter that no one noticed Michael's re-entrance - until the newest op among them spoke up.   
  
"What about you, Michael. Got any good Nikita stories?"   
  
The room froze and all heads turned toward Michael. Birkoff vaguely remembered Kate quietly asking Ken what she'd said. That was when Michael allowed a half-smile, and simply answered in soft, whispered breath- "Yes." Michael's gaze then shifted toward Birkoff and Ken. He nodded once and then headed into the back of the plane. An easy silence filled the area, before Birkoff said, "Ken, do you remember the Chandler Mission?"   
  
Ken laughed and shook his head. "How could I forget – Classic Nikita!"   
  
Birkoff then turned toward Kate and told her how Nikita, still on probationary status, had changed a profile in play, how they had all sat around waiting for the target to call her. As time ticked away, Operations had gotten more and more annoyed at her. And then the Nikita's portable phone rang. Nikita's expression and Operation's reaction were classic moments. They had all laughed and then Michael once more, went over the profile.   
  
It wasn't until after the mission, as the full team walked through egress, that Kate finally asked where Nikita was now. Michael just looked at her for a moment before his "blank stare" mask fell across his face.   
  
It was at that point that he, Birkoff, interceded. "She died, Kate. About four months ago, protecting a friend."   
  
When he said those words, he had wished they were anything but true. Now he wished to God they had been. He'd said that two days before Ops had gone to Paris.   
  
According to the files he had just completed restoring, he's said them three days before the rescue mission to retrieve Nikita had taken place. He'd said them three days before Nikita had actually died. He couldn't let this get out. They'd all just begun healing. The guilt and pain would hurt - destroy - to many friends.   
  
Birkoff knew what this knowledge was doing to him - what would it do to Michael? What would he do if he found out that he had allowed Nikita to be tortured for months before dying virtually alone. What would Michael do if he ever found out that Operations knew Nikita had been alive?   
  
Birkoff knew – Michael would see it as Simone all over again. He had only survived that because Nikita had been there to pull him back. No, Michael would blame himself and Operations. He would probably never accept that Operations had been trying to protect them all. They would lose Michael, and they just might lose Operations with him.   
  
He wasn't going to let it happen!   
  
Birkoff - determined to do what he had to be done in order to protect his friends, his family - accessed the newly reconstructed files. Skillfully, he deconstructed areas, inserted false information, and destroyed - even beyond his recovery - all areas of the files that identified Nikita. He then transferred the newly created files to disk for presentation to Madeline.   
  
Rising from his workstation, he walked calmly toward the passageway that would lead him to Madeline's offices. Silently, he plead for Nikita's forgiveness in having failed her so badly and prayed that if any higher being existed, they would guide his steps in doing for Nikita the one thing left he could - protect their family.   
  
*************  
The sun slowly began it's descent below the horizon. The day was finally closing, and Michael was grateful. He had learned to adjust to life in Section without Nikita; grown used to her absence and the ever-present ache he felt when something pointed that absence out. He'd gone on. But sometimes, and some days, were harder than others. Days like today.   
  
He had spent the last two weeks on back to back missions, existing outside of section only when it was required by the mission. With missions complete and non-on-the-pad, Operations had ordered him to take some down time. He stepped out of Section in the darkness that saturated the city just before the dawn and arrived in Nikita's favorite park just in time for the morning's first gold to break the horizon - just in time to see the ice capped trees light like fire. There had been something fresh and new about the morning that pained and exhilarated him at the same time.   
  
In the quiet and peace endowed stillness, Michael felt Nikita with him. He could almost smell her scent and he'd luxuriated in the knowledge that he'd never be without her. Her peace and love surround him.   
  
Yet, even as he'd felt her presence, so did he feel her absence. As precious as it was, he'd ached even more so to hold her, to hear her voice - to just look at her.   
  
Now, at the end of the day, Michael slowly walked through the same park in the downtown area, content for the moment to let the sounds of life drift around him. Nikita had loved this place, loved to watch the children play. He had followed her here often. He wondered now if she had known he did.   
  
Pulling his black closer around his chest, he sealed it against the cold, December air. He found an odd type of comfort coming here - watching the children play as Nikita had once done. They were so free - laughing and happy - totally unaware of the evils in the world. And that was just as it should be. Being here reminded him clearly of what he was fighting to protect, of what Nikita had always fought so hard to protect.   
  
Coming to a rest area, he found a seat on a bench facing the setting sun. Scanning the area, he found he recognized most of the families. To his right a young girl laughed happily as she pushed and pulled her limbs through the snow - making yet another snow angel to add to the ring she'd created. Jumping up from the ground, she jumped into the center of her circle and began twirling herself around laughing joyfully. The child leaned her head pack, allowing her hood to fall off and her long blonde hair to fly free just before she fell - still laughing - to her knees.   
  
When she looked up, she met his eyes with her own bright blue glaze. Rising to her feet, she ran over toward him. As she drew closer, Michael realized that this was the child that Nikita had watched the most often - the only one with which she had made any contact. He had always wondered if Nikita had been like that child or if Nikita saw in her all she could have and should have been? He watched helplessly, his heart in his throat, as the child grew closer. He could see now that she had grown in the nine months since Nikita had last seen her, last vestiges of the baby she had been replaced by the faintest glimpse of the woman she would someday become. Children grew; life went on - no matter who it left behind. He closed his eyes; the pain that tore at his heart as fresh as it had been the day Nikita's had been ripped from his life. The only difference was; now, it was part of him.   
  
Life went on - even if sometimes it seemed to go on without him.   
  
"Your him aren't you - Nikita's friend? I've seen you here a lot. Where did she go?"   
  
He opened his eyes at the sound of the child's whisper-soft voice. He stared at her for a moment. Before he could respond he heard a woman's voice calling out to the child.   
  
"Marie!" A blonde woman, about 5' 5" jogged toward the child. "I'm sorry, sir. Marie knows better than to bother strangers!" She had addressed him briefly before turning the last pointed comment back to her child.   
  
"It is alright. She wasn't bothering me." He said to Marie's mother, then turning to the child he said, "Yes, I am Nikita's friend."   
  
"See Mama, he's Nikita's friend. I just wanted to..."   
  
"Marie, Nikita told you herself she was moving away for a while and she wasn't sure when she would be back."   
  
"Maaaaaama, I just want to know if she is okay, she is, isn't she?" Marie had turned her baby eyes on him, pleading for a positive response.   
  
Michael glanced once toward the mother, then back at the little girl whom Nikita had befriended, he didn't want to lie to the child, but neither was he prepared to have to tell the truth - the words a little to hard to say. "Yes, " he said, "She's safe and happy."   
  
Marie turned her head up and, again, looked Michael in the eye. "That's why you're sad then, isn't it? She's gone and you miss her."   
  
"Yes. I miss her. Very much."   
  
"Will you be moving to where she went?"   
  
"Maybe someday. But I have work to do here first."   
  
"But if you love her. . ."   
  
Michael looked up at Marie's mother, hoping for guidance or rescue. A look of compassion and empathy entered her eyes and she reached down for her daughter's hand.   
  
"Marie, do you remember when we talked about how sometimes things happen in life and you just have to live it? Like when Daddy got transferred here and we had to move here. Well, just because this gentleman and Nikita love each other and want to be together, doesn't always mean they can. Now, we have bothered Nikita's friend for far to long. It's time to go. Come on."   
  
Michael watched as Marie followed her mother, turning once to wave good-bye to him.   
  
A flicker of gold light caught his eye and Michael turned to look across the park at the setting sun. Parents and children slowly cleared the park as the red-gold light glittered through the icy, leafless trees. For a while, he just sat there staring blindly ahead. The encounter with the small child, Marie, had awakened within him an acute awareness of the chilling emptiness created by the absence of Nikita in his life – his heart, mind and body were once again consumed by the pain of her loss. His will to continue living faltered under the renewed pain he felt when he thought of the years ahead of him devoid of her loving and warm presence – devoid of the gently lilting of her voice.   
  
The last threads of golden light flashed by him, sparkling on the icicles that decorated the bare trees. In the twinkling of the light – for the briefest moment – Michael could see Nikita standing before him. A soft gentle breeze that ruffled his hair and stirred the snow at this feet seemed to carry with it Nikita's soothing voice – "I love you, Michael."   
  
As the final rays of twilight gave way to the enveloping darkness of the winter's night, Michael sat on his bench embraced by the essence of Nikita's love. The lonely years ahead still seemed daunting, but for now the chance to redeem himself enough to someday be reunited with his love was enough to face the next day, and then maybe the day after. It was enough for now.   
  
*************  
Madeline had been staring across her office at the lit wall of shelves that housed her bonsai trees for two hours when the she received the message telling her Operations had returned to their underground lair. She'd spent that time trying to sort through the circus her thoughts and emotions had become since discovering the files Birkoff had been actively reconstructing and then reinventing.   
  
The image of a battered and emaciated Nikita haunted her, as did the withdrawn and distant look in Birkoff's eyes as he had easy and blatantly lied to her. He hadn't faltered once, shown any weakness or indecision - much less given any indication that he wasn't being 100% forthcoming. He'd been utterly determined to protect his friends.   
  
Her mind swirled in an endless mass of what ifs and whys. Why hadn't she ordered a DNA verifications? Why didn't she see the possibility earlier? What group, or who was responsible for the attack?   
  
The only stray bit of light in the whole macabre turn of events was that she now, at least, had a catalyst for Paul's abnormal behavior in the past few months. Part of her wanted to saunter into his office and pull the answers she wanted from him - using whatever wiles she needed. But she wouldn't allow herself the pleasure - the consequences far outweighed the potential gain.   
  
Instead, she signaled for her car and guards grabbed her coat and exited her office.   
  
Walking through the halls, her eyes instinctively sought and absorbed the actions, stances, and reactions of all she passed. As she passed the comm area, she stopped and momentarily studied Birkoff. He swivelled his chair between his two workstations – hard at work. In casual observation, he was the same as always. Madeline could see the differences though – the straighter shoulders, the reserve, the strength – all born of grief and determination. There was steel in his disposition now and an undaunted inner fire. Both of which he had gained from Nikita – from her example and her friendship. As Madeline watched him, she looked for signs of the weight he bore on his shoulders – a weight seemingly borne alone now. The weight of knowing exactly how badly they had failed Nikita – failed their family. She would watch him closely – this time she would be there to catch him before he fell.   
  
Resigned, she turned back towards egress. As she walked by Walter's station, she noticed the gate was back up and she could hear him whistling as he bent over his workstation. He looked up at her, as if feeling her stare and smiled faintly, then returned to his work. She continued walking, mentally filing away his perplexing behavior.   
  
Once she reached the egress point, she slipped through the limo door helped open by a black leather clad operative and sunk back into her seat. She allowed the smooth motion of the car as it pulled away to lull her, to ease away some of the tension that knotted at the base of her neck.   
  
The dusk light broke through the darkened windows of the limo cabin and Madeline turned to watch the other cars as they passed by her. Absently she wondered if any of those people were even remotely aware of went on daily to keep their world as remotely safe as it was. She felt the gentle slowing of her car and watched as it drew to a halt in the midst of traffic. Scanning the area around her car she realized that they were beside a park she had never visited, but that she had seen frequently in the surveillance logs. Nikita had come here often.   
  
Using the intercom on the center panel, she told her driver to pull over to the park. Stepping out of the limo, she gathered her coat around her and looked around - absorbing the sites and sounds of the life.   
  
Light from the setting sun reflected of the ice on the tree branches and into her eyes. Opening her purse to retrieve her sunglasses and gloves, she found instead the wire sculpture of Nikita's. Gently, she turned it over and around in her hands, feeling its edges and dimensions. As she gazed at the riot of colored wire, she felt the now familiar sense of loss before placing it back in the bag and pulling out the articles she originally sought.   
  
Slowly, she walked around the edges of the park. It didn't take long for Madeline to understand why Nikita had frequented this place. There was a peace and vitality to it that energized while it healed. She could hear the sounds of children laughing while they played a few feet away. And the light as it glimmered off the ice-covered trees lent the place a mythical feel. Time - the world - stopped here and it's ugliness vanquished. For a brief moment she could almost touch the vibrancy of the place – a vibrancy Nikita had embodied.   
  
Madeline missed that ebullience. Some days it was easier to not notice the difference Nikita had brought to Section – the difference that had been lost with her – and to accept being a ghost instead of a shadow. Today however, the small inner voice she harbored deep within her railed against the burgeoning darkness that was resettling over Section. She didn't want to be a ghost – to as dead inside herself as she was to the world. Not now. Not when she had tasted life again. She could live as a shadow – for shadows lived in the light. She just didn't want to return to that cold living death.   
  
Madeline stopped and willed the repulsive self-analysis from her mind. Her training section training once again kicking in. She didn't have time or the need to dwell on what would not be. She had to move on. Turning around, she walked steadily out of the park – away from the whimsical thoughts that had no place in her existence. She had no life of her own – only section. She was a ghost – a specter to haunt the dark underworld of the anti-terrorist organization. She had to accept that – again.   
  
Then, out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him. Michael. Sitting alone in the rapidly emptying park. His shoulders were slightly slumped and all the energy seemed drained from him. He looked truly like a shell – a body missing its soul. She could feel her heart catch – knowing full well that nothing would show to the outside world. As Madeline watched him, a single thought entered her head -What will happen when Michael finds out? She did not doubt that it would happen – someday.   
  
She continued to watch Michael as he seemed to pull himself back from the emptiness her trained eye had revealed to her only moments earlier. She watched Michael as he rose from the park bench and left the park. Only to her trained eye, could Michael's dolorous behavior be seen. She knew that to anyone else he would appear as if nothing was even slightly wrong.   
  
Again the thought invaded her mind, nagged at her – What will Michael do when he finds out? What will any of his team members do? She was fairly certain that they would lose Michael, either by his own hand, an accident in the field, or by cancellation. This situation was too like the one with Simone for it not to destroy him, and this time there would be no Nikita waiting to pull him back. Then there was the question of what Michael would do in his downward spiral. Would he lash out? Would he believe Section had abandoned Nikita the way we had abandoned Simone? Would he try to take Section with him?   
  
Madeline wished more again that she had checked the DNA on the body they had believed was Nikita. She could have headed this whole situation off from the start. But she couldn't turn back time – even if she wanted to. It was time to move forward – time to make sure that her "family" healed and that no one threatened that.   
  
Striding back to the car, she climbed in and told the driver to return her to Section. Her first goal – locate all files concerning Nikita's kidnapping and torture and truly destroy them this time. She would take no chance with Michael ever finding out any time soon. Then she would begin her campaign to track and erase L'huere Sanguine, and build in contingencies for when Michael did learn the truth.   
  
Those bastards may have dimmed the light that had shone briefly in Section – but she would be damned before she would allow it to be extinguished. A cruel smile curled across Madeline's face as she thought of her first encounter with L'huere Sanguine's new ringleader. Sometimes Madeline really liked the Golden Rule - especially when she was the one returning the favor!   
  
*************  
Walter strolled down the hallways of the private hospital. A small black dufflebag swung behind him matching his buoyant swagger. The changes he had witnessed in Nikita in the last week amazed him. At first she had been listless, not quite conscious and then she had slowly pulled herself back. Enough so that she was complaining about her hospital gown – she hated it. He had come in one yesterday and been presented with a list of things she wanted. All of which made him laugh.   
  
Slowing his pace, he pushed open the now familiar door. He stopped in the doorway momentarily to take in Nikita's appearance. She looked like hellish. The white hospital gown she wore only seemed to exaggerate how pallidness of her complection. Her hair, which had thinned considerable due to her malnutrition, hung insipidly and sparsely about her face as she ate slowly from the bowl in front of her. Taking a fortifying breath, he straightened and breezed through the doorway. "Good Morning Sugar!"   
  
"Walter!"   
  
Nikita's enthusiastic response always caught him square in the chest. He was very aware of the battle she was waging against a whole slew of emotional maladies but she never failed to at least try to portray a positive attitude. All of this made him even more determined than ever to kept up a good face for her. He knew he wasn't really fooling her anymore than she was fooling him, but he knew it helped both get through.   
  
"You're just in time. Hope you brought lunch" She said gesturing to the tray in front of her with a shaky hand. "I don't think you want to any of this – it's positively awful!"   
  
Walter laughed, as another thrill went through him – the doctors had told him the next step in Nikita's recovery was to start her on bland liquids to slowly adjusted her body to processing food again. His Sugar was one step closer to recovering – one step further out of the looming shadow of cancellation.   
  
"Sure did Sugar – as well as some of the articles you requested." Reaching into the dufflebag, Walter withdrew a black tee-shirt, "this one courtesy of a certain Level 5 Op – unknowingly of course. You'd better appreciate this, too, cause if he finds out I took it - there will be hell to pay."   
  
Nikita extended a emaciated hand and took the shirt from him, then hugged it to her chest, inhaling deeply as if trying to capture an illusive scent. Walter saw the flicker of pain that crossed her face and the tears spring to her eyes. The same emotional stab he saw every time he mentioned Michael. "Hej now Sugar. None of that. You're getting better everyday. This'll all be over soon."   
  
She looked him square in the eye and for a minute he didn't think she really believed him. "Yeah, right Walter." She said, plastering her best fake but bright smile on her face. He knew she was hiding her pain and doubt, but he also knew he couldn't help her yet. It was still her battle to fight.   
  
Reaching into the bag again, he pulled out a folded picture frame. Opening it first, he then presented the pictures to her. She took it gingerly, and balanced it in her lap with her free hand. Carefully, she ran her finger across the images.   
  
"I, ah, had copies made of some of Linda ??'s pictures. The one of you an Michael is from the 4th of July."   
  
Nikita greeted his comment by looking up at him from under her eyelashes. Her expression clearly stating that the one thing she hadn't lost was her memories of Michael. "And the other, Walter? This was taken at the beach, but whe. . . "   
  
Her voice trailed off as she realized when the picture must have been taken. Coming around the bed so that he could sit beside her, he looked at the picture of himself with Birkoff and Michael at the beach house. They were sitting on the deck, with the setting sun in the background. "That was taken the night before we had to return to Section Headquarters. You would have been so proud of them, Nikita. They, the whole team, really banded together and pulled each other through a lot of pain. They are going to be so happy to have you back!"   
  
He could feel her body begin to tremble and knew she was crying. Gently, he pulled her to him, enfolding her in an embrace. "Shh, now, Sugar. It's going to be okay."   
  
"Are you sure Walter? They are finally healing – getting on with there lives."   
  
"Now you just stop that kinda talk. They love you Nikita – and they need you. Yes we are surviving with out you – and we would continue to survive with out you. But survivin' ain't livin. They need you. now no more of this talk! First- You need to eat, and then we are getting you out of this bed. All this immobility isn't good for you!"   
  
The sound of a small chuckle emanating from Nikita chased away the niggling fears he had for her ability to fight the her depression and doubt.   
  
"Okay you –eat. And I will tell you about Mr. Birkoff's newest woman problems – make that women problems."   
  
Walter rambled on as Nikita ate. When she was finished the last of her soup, he give her the sweat suit she had asked for and call a nurse to help her dress. Then he would take her for a walk, certain that as she regained some of the physical strength, so would she regain some of her spirit.   
  
Walter was certain – regardless of what doctors or statistics said – that everything was going to be just fine. It may be a bump road ahead – but it was all going to be just fine.   



	6. Home Again

December 15  
When she arrived at her office this morning, she had mistakenly believed that nothing she would ever experience would suprise her. Years of life in Section had jaded her in that way – and many more.   
  
Even Birkoff's accepting reaction when she had told him she knew of his deception, that she knew Nikita had survived many months of captivity only to die in Operations' arms and that she needed his help to continue to protect not only Section, but Operations and Michael as well. She'd been proud of his amazing composure, his astute acceptance and his tempered wariness at her information. And she'd been proud of his thoroughness. Many of the files he had destroyed, he had done so literally – physically – thereby eliminating any chance of Michael finding them. At her request, Birkoff reconstructed the files he could from what Madeline had managed to copy. He'd done a remarkable job of tracking down leads, as well. The closer they got to the answers, the more she dreaded them – but that didn't surprise her.   
  
Being summoned to Operation's perch had not surprised her – it was a regular enough occurrence. Finding Walter there had intrigued her, but again – no surprise. Even when Operations shut down the room, blacked the glass and deactivated the surveillance, she had been curious, but not surprised. She had watched him move to his desk, turn on his monitor and smile.   
  
The smile was genuine and easy – amused. It was a smile she hadn't seen in years, and it captivated her. Walter moved around behind him and looked at the monitor, his expression shifting from quizzical to proud and delighted. Then he laughed. Walter laughed.   
  
Paul looked at her, and it was Paul – not Operations. His eyes sparkled with mischief and curiosity, his mouth twisted into a cheshire grin. He turned the monitor to face her, his eyes never leaving her face.   
  
Madeline had slowly broke her gaze away from him and looked at the screen. Her first thought was how like Nikita the woman was – her second was a flash of anger that Paul would think to manipulate them and Michael with a duplicate. She looked up again to meet his eyes and in that one instant of clarity, she had understood.   
  
The hands. The body language. Walter had laughed.   
  
Nikita. It WAS Nikita. She had survived.   
  
Now, minutes – or what it hours- later, as the scenery whizzed by her unnoticed, Madeline's found herself in a state of shock. She sat there, as the car finally drew to a halt in front of the hospital, gathering her memories of the last few months and locking the behind a mental barrier, as she waited her door to be opened. Stepping out of the car, she noticed immediately the gentlemen with silver-white hair.   
  
"Mrs. Winston?"   
  
"Yes." She replied, her voice strong and cool, belying the emotions that she trapped within herself.   
  
"I am Dr. Helfgolt. Your husband called and told us to expect you. I am sure you are anxious to see your stepdaughter, so if you will follow me, I will fill you in on her condition while we walk?"   
  
"Thank you, Doctor."   
  
As they walked down the sterile white halls of the clinic, Madeline tried to prepare herself for her first encounter with Nikita. Even still, she found herself unprepared for deathly haggard visage of Nikita lying so still in the hospital bed. If her eyes had not picked up instantly on the even inhale and exhale of breath, she would have believed the young operative dead. Slowly, she walked up to stand beside Nikita's bed – gently brushing the wayward strands of hair from her forehead.   
  
Nikita's eyes instantly flicked open and slowly focused on Madeline's features. She watched the emotions roll through Nikita's ever-expressive eyes. At first there had been bewilderment, then fear and finally compassion. Compassion!   
  
Nikita raised a shaking, frail hand to Madeline's face and brushed the tears from her cheek – tears she hadn't realized she was shedding. A weak smile crossed Nikita's features as she lowered her hand. Tentatively, Madeline reached out her own hand to grasp Nikita's.   
  
She felt an overwhelming and unexpected grief tear through her heart and soul – and rage. Rage at violation perpetrated not only against Nikita but of her world – her controlled sanctum. The violence of emotions was cast to the shadows of her mind by the profound relief she had felt at the recognition in Nikita's eyes when she had looked up and Madeline realized that while damaged, Nikita's soul, heart, and strength were still intact.   
  
Madeline remembered how it felt to smile – genuinely smile. They sat there, measuring each other, both trying to find words to open communication that would not damage the frail, renewed connection they had the chance to forge between the them.   
  
Deep down, Madeline wished that they could simply slip back into their pre-Shays relationship, knowing that Nikita needed, more than anything right now, the maternal-type of emotional support. Yet too much had happened for either of them to ever walk that path together again. No, their only hope was to find a mutual ground and build a new relationship from there. Finally, Madeline decided to break the silence. "I am sorry Nikita. We should have come for you sooner. I shouldn't have accepted you were dead, not without hard verification."   
  
Nikita watched her quizzically. Madeline could see the doubt in her eyes, and didn't blame her. Then Nikita's mouth curved into the sad, understanding smile uniquely her's as she cocked her head to the side. In a soft, weak, and slightly raspy voice that still managed to resonate with conviction, Nikita spoke. "From what I understand , Madeline, your actions after I was taken helped Michael, Birkoff, and probably Walter, too. Your first priority was Section and you did what had to be done to protect Section's best interests. I understand that."   
  
Now it was Madeline's turn to wonder. She looked closely into Nikita's eyes, taking her chin in hand to prevent her from turning away. She could see the turbulent emotions swirling under the cool controlled section façade. Madeline could see that Nikita meant her words, but underlying that acceptance and understanding was a deep well of untapped hurt and fear.   
  
Madeline released Nikita's chin, and took her hand again. She gently smiled at her, allowing her own emotions to show through, knowing that she could use her own pain as a catalyst to break the walls the empathetic Nikita had built around her own torment. She watched as Nikita's control gradually crumpled, letting loose the tears and pent up anger that she had buried. Gently, Madeline gathered her into her arms, crooning to her as they rocked back and forth. Her eyes burned as she fought the release of her own buried torments. She had found herself promising Nikita that everything would be okay – and meaning it. She would do what she had to make things right, within Section's constraints. Finally, she allowed her own cathartic tears to fall.   
  
December 22  
"Excuse me ma'am. We are beginning final preparations to land."   
  
A soft, whispered voice of one of the Section concord's crew drew Madeline from her jumbled thoughts and memories of the past 2 days.   
  
"How is Nikita?"   
  
"She's still sleeping, ma'am. The med team is securing her for landing now."   
  
"Good. Thank you." Madeline dismissed her and turned her eyes to look out the window of the plane.   
  
Checking her watch, Madeline realized that they would be landing in less than an hour in New York City. Another short flight on a private jet followed by an hour-long drive from the private airfield to the house Michael and Nikita had called home for the summer.   
  
Undoing the seatbelt in a practiced, economic flick of her wrist, Madeline rose from her seat and stepped into the aisle and walked the short distance to the medical bay in the back of Section One's concord. After sending the "duty" nurse to a seat in the body of the plane, Madeline watched Nikita sleep. The reality of the past few days was finally sinking in for her. Seeing Nikita, awake or sleeping, no longer seemed surreal. Keeping her back to the only active camera in the area, Madeline moved to stand at the side of the bed. Madeline marveled at how peaceful she could look in sleep, and how alive – despite the ravages her ordeal had on her appearance. The vitality she that had attracted her to Nikita still shined. Perhaps not as radiantly, but it was there.   
  
Once, long ago, she had told Nikita that Section was her family. It had been a means of redirecting Nikita's loyalty. Madeline had even precipitated a bond between Nikita and herself – one that should have been one-sided – Nikita to her. In the end, Madeline had watched as she strained that bond until, ultimately, it shattered on Nikita's end. But not on her own. She'd risked more than she wanted to think of in her warning Michael of Nikita's intended cancellation during the Shay's mission. She'd even run cover for them when Nikita returned alive.   
  
Madeline had learned during Nikita's first year as a cold op that she had the strength to continue to care for Michael after his continually, if unwilling, betrayals, but not enough to take those betrayals on two fronts– so she let Nikita go. The way she'd let Michael go all those years ago, and the way she'd let Paul go recently. It had been necessary for them all to survive. She more than anyone else was aware of just how much a human soul could take of loss and betrayal before the person was totally destroyed – beyond recovery. Paul, Michael, Nikita – all were far too important to the future success of Section to risk added damage to them emotionally. It was far better for them to always be weary, for them to not care quite so much about her – that way they were never betrayed by her, as opposed to her actions. Never hurt by her loss.   
  
Gently, confident that Nikita was deep in sleep, she reached out to bush at the newly shorn locks. Three days ago, in the early morning hours, she'd working on covering Ops trail over what she had thought had been a failed attempt to save Nikita, providing and implementing the backup contingency plans for when Michael finally found out the truth. She'd worked around the clock to develop a carefully set of 'safety nets' to protect her 'family' from the inevitable fall out when the truth of Nikita's fate came to light.   
  
In those long hours, she hadn't dared to hope that Nikita was alive. But she had been alive and if all went as Madeline and Nikita planned – her family would be well on the way to recovery in a few short hours. She didn't fool herself - the road would be long and rocky. Nikita still had a lot of emotional and physical problems to work through and Michael would have his own issues to deal with, but together, as a team, they would come through this stronger than ever.   
  
Madeline waited until she heard the chiming of the seatbelt signal before taking and buckling herself into one of the seats used for the medical team during transport. Reaching out, she laid her hand on Nikita's shoulder and waited for gravity to increase as the concord slowed and landed.   
  
****************  
Madeline looked out the window of the standard black Suburban as it pulled into the driveway of Michael and Nikita's beach house. The lights were on, and the door opened as three operatives, including John Marks exited. Glancing over the seat, she smiled at Nikita, who was stretched out in the back.   
  
"We're here."   
  
"Thank God!" Nikita breathed as she attempted to rise, shooting Madeline a look that said she was clearly determined to leave the car under her own power.   
  
She was about to order Nikita to wait, when the door swung open and she heard John Marks' deep, rich voice.   
  
"Uh- no you don't. We are under strict orders to make sure you take it nice and easy - and I refuse to risk cancellation for one measly blonde!" His tone was light - joking - but it did not lack for respect.   
  
As she stepped out of the Suburban, Madeline caught the glare Nikita threw at her over John's shoulder. She smiled and laughed softly. Even through the "annoyance", Madeline could see the weariness in Nikita's eyes and body.   
  
Mentally, she began to review how she had the evening planned, wondering if perhaps she should cut the evening short to give Nikita time to recoup from the mental and physical drain of travel. Leisurely, Madeline followed the other operatives into the house.   
  
As she crossed the threshold, she was surrounded by the sweet smell of home cooking mixed with a linger, soft, scent of gardenias. Proceeding into the living room area, she was welcomed by the warm flickering of votives and the crackle of a blazing fire. The golden light from the setting sun that cascaded through the closed sheers hanging loosely in front of the windows cast a comforting glow around the room.   
  
Setting her bag down, she allowed the room to seep into her instead of analyzing it. She had seen all the furnishings from the purchase reports, but the actual effect of the room caught her off guard and brought her a new understand. In this house, the two Nikita's she had known had become one. Where each of her apartment decors had been measures in extremes, this place was a functioning blend. The two sofas, while austere in color and based on traditional design, were clearly comfortable and comforting. They were meant to sink into - to be cocooned by the pillows. The tables were traditional and simple down to the plain, block rivets and handles- yet the cherry wood and the brass added warmth to the room. Color was spread through the room through pillows, blankets and various candleholders and a few scattered knick-knacks.   
  
And sitting dead center on the coffee table was a large, green, round, glass, vase that flared at the top. Aside from the vase, the table was empty. It seemed wrong.   
  
Madeline realized she had been staring at the vase only when John Marx stepped into her line of sight and gently set Nikita down on the sofa. Reaching over her, he pulled the green, chenille throw from the back of the sofa and gingerly tucked it around her.   
  
"Madeline, do you know where my bag is?"   
  
At Nikita's question Madeline felt her self smile genuinely - something she had found her self doing a lot in the past few days. Stooping down slightly, she lifted the bag that sat beside her and joined Nikita on the sofa. She watched as Nikita gleeful took the bag and opened it. The first item she pulled out was a framed picture. Madeline watched the play of emotions that crossed Nikita's face - a wistful expression followed by a powerful love tempered by wisdom and understanding beyond Nikita's years - regardless of what she had seen in her years as a section operative. Slowly, Nikita held out the picture to her, her eyes questioning Madeline. Taking the picture, Madeline found herself looking at a picture of Michael and Nikita. Something in the picture caused Madeline's breath to catch in her throat. The love captured forever in the picture had a deep and almost primal quality - it was immeasurable, pure, sacred - and it was timeless. Most importantly - she remembered a similar picture taken long ago in a small café in Vienna. She had believed then that her and Paul's love would see them through hell - would be the strength that would seal the bond they would need to build their dreams. It had been. Until she turned her back on it.   
  
A tear drop hit the picture, startling Madeline from her reverie. Glancing up, she saw the questioning and worried look in Nikita's eyes - and the understanding. It was unnerving. Twisting her position away from Nikita, she placed the picture face down on the coffee table.   
  
"Ahhh, Madeline. Mr. Marks told me you had arrived. I will have dinner ready in 15 minutes, if you would like to freshen up. Would you like to be served out here? " The tall dark haired man asked as he strolled from the kitchen in a relaxed gait.   
  
"Hello, Christopher. I wasn't aware that you would be here."   
  
"Operations sent me ahead to make sure there was appropriate food for both yourself and Nikita - and to see that everything was in order for the 25th."   
  
"That was thoughtful, and yes, I would like us to be served out here. Thank you, Christopher. "   
  
"Uh, Madeline," Nikita asked hesitantly, "could you help me? I want to change. I am sick of these clothes. And I would like to be able to move around a bit."   
  
"Of course." Madeline responded, keeping her tone cool, knowing that Nikita still didn't trust her. Too much of a show of warmth or friendship would increase her suspicion, lead to Nikita raising her mental and emotional barriers.   
  
Standing, Madeline retrieved the bag still sitting in Nikita's lap, then extended her arm to assist her in standing. She felt Nikita's grip tighten on her arm as she steadied herself before she started walking toward the master bedroom As she followed Nikita, Madeline caught the look of admiration in Christopher's face as his eye's trailed Nikita's progress from the room. A half-smile curled her lips, feeling an intense pride in Nikita.   
  
Standing just behind Christopher were three black clad operatives, two males and one female, seemingly awe struck. While she did not recognize immediately the two men, it would be hard for Madeline to ever forget Lauren Haas. Her seeming awe of Nikita intrigued Madeline, and she filed away her suspicions for further consideration at a later date.   
  
Walking into the room behind Nikita, Madeline was struck by the peace the room seemed to invoke. Done primarily in shades of white, with color strewn about through blankets, pillows and pictures. The décor of the room was simple, open and airy. Her attention was immediately drawn to the wall opposite the door. A large oversized, overstuffed chair upholstered in a soft, light-natural colored denim fabric sat off at angle in the corner, a stack of well-read books beside it. The wall itself was dominated by a large, frosted glass window which allowed light to encompass the room in a soft glow. A king-size bed littered with pillows and a fluffy white down comforter sat on the far right wall.   
  
Placing Nikita's bag on the wooded chest at the foot of the bed, Madeline opened it and pulled out a black tee-shirt and sweat pants. Placing them beside Nikita, she watched the blonde as she pulled off the black, wool turtleneck and slacks she had been wearing and replaced them with the large, tee-shirt and sweatpants.   
  
For the first time Madeline took real notice of the shirt when Nikita leaned over to pull a pair of black socks from the bag, and found herself amused. A Pepe Le Pew and Kitty tee-shirt? She knew Nikita often had a quirky taste in clothing, but she could have sworn Nikita had told her that Walter had "borrowed" the tee-shirt from Michael.   
  
Sitting up, Nikita glanced her way and regarded her inquiringly. Then, as if understanding Madeline's bewilderment, she looked down at the tee-shirt and smiled to herself, a "secret" type smile. The hauntingly, unconscious, kind of smile, Madeline knew, Nikita reserved usually for thoughts of Michael. While this only added to her curiosity, she was unwilling to push Nikita – she would wait for the proper opportunity to lean the story behind the tee-shirt to avail itself.   
  
"Are you warm enough?" Madeline asked, slightly concerned at the scant raising of goosebumps she saw on Nikita's exposed arms.   
  
"Actually, no. Can you see if Michael left a sweater or something in the armoire?"   
  
Smiling slightly, Madeline nodded, before turning toward the opposite wall where Michael's armoire stood. Once she had the doors open, her eye was immediately drawn to a heavy, pine green sweatshirt. Pulling it from its space on the self and opening it up, she nearly laughed. There it was again – Pepe Le Pew dipping his Kitty – embroidered in the left corner.   
  
Turning to face Nikita, Madeline held up the sweatshirt, a single eyebrow raised. Nikita only response was to hold out her hands – still smiling.   
  
All in all, it was a good thing, Madeline decided. Whatever was behind that smile had rekindled a bit of the light in Nikita's eyes and she had grown more animated in the past few minutes. Madeline handed the sweatshirt over and watched as Nikita slipped it over her head and adjusted it on her body. Raising her hands to her head, Nikita brushed her fingers through the thin, short hair – and stopped – her fingers resting at the base of her neck.   
  
Seeing the slight hesitation in Nikita's breathing, Madeline walked over and dropped to her knees in front the softly crying woman. Reaching out, she brushed the tears from Nikita's face, gently tilting her face so they could look each other in the eye. Carefully, Madeline brushed at Nikita's hair, arranging it .   
  
"You look beautiful, Nikita, " Madeline said softly, the timber of her voice warm and assuring. Madeline found herself smiling involuntarily in response to Nikita's shy smile. "Would I have shortened my own hair if I didn't like it?" She used a matter-of- fact tone and hoped Nikita would pick up on the teasing.   
  
Nikita's sudden laughter startled her, but not nearly as much as feeling Nikita's arms come around her in a hug. She found herself fighting tears when she heard the whispered word in her ear, "Thank you, Madeline. For everything."   
  
Pulling back, Madeline swallowed hard and forced her face to conform to the 'Section mask' she had long ago perfected. "Dinner should be ready. I have the profile for the next few days ready – perhaps we can discuss the schedule and necessary items over dinner and take a walk after dinner?"   
  
Nikita merely smiled, her own expression molding itself into her own version of the mask, and extended her hand.   
  
Taking the proffered hand, Madeline felt Nikita shaking slightly as she pulled her to her feet and together, they walked from the sanctuary of master bedroom.   



	7. Even Now

December 22  
  
The simple greeting devoid of eye contact was more than he'd expected from the formidable older man. Operations stood staring down at this domain, his stance as it always was ? feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back. Only a slightly higher tension in his shoulders revealed anything to Michael. Operations was worried.   
  
"I'm sending you back to the States. You will resume your cover as Michael St. Just and spend the holidays at the beach house. I have already sent Walter and Birkoff ahead to help maintain the cover."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"There is a possibility that the Roberds will be spending the holiday there. The Senator is still concerned with his daughter's safety. We are doing this as a favor." Operations explained, his voice hesitating to emphasize the last word, his eyes never leaving the workings of the people below.   
  
Michael stood beside Operations silently. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other man turn and regard him. Slowly, Michael turned his head, allowing their eyes to meet. Operations smiled at him coldly, yet that coldness did not reach beyond the smile. There was something in his expression that left Michael uneasy.   
  
Reaching into the interior chest pocket of his blazer, Operations withdrew a small data disk jacket and handed it to Michael. "All the information you need is here. It is encrypted. Birkoff has the key." Retrieving a PDA from the ledge beside him, Operations handed it to Michael, "All other information has been transferred to your PDA."   
  
Michael stood under Operations penetrating gaze, "There are many things I have kept from you, Michael. I have my reasons." Glacial blue eyes locked onto hooded green, "There is nothing I would do differently." He turned from him then, to glare out at his domain, signaling to Michael that the meeting was over.   
  
With his usual stealth, Michael exited the aerie and forced his mind to blank as he walked toward his office. Once inside, he seated himself behind his desk and immediately disabled the surveillance before leaning back against the chair.   
  
Even now, the very mention of the house brought memories swirling to the forefront of his mind. Fragments of a life that warmed and pained him at once. In his mind's eye he could still see her, his Nikita, smiling, laughing, her blue eyes shining and he felt himself smile inside. She was the silver light that illuminated the dark corners of his soul, the very life that flowed through his veins. He missed her, ached for her, but somehow, in the four months since her death, he learned to carry her with him in a way he never had before - she comforted him, eased his pain. Her memory opened his eyes and heart, allowing to see the world as she had, giving him the will and the reason to continue with Section's true mission. She was his soul.   
  
Sitting straight in his chair, he reactivated the surveillance and quickly committed to memory the information on the PDA.   
  
********   
  
Two hours had passed since he had spoken to Michael. Part of him wondered if this wasthe best way to handle the situation. He had spent a few too many hours putting himself in Michael's place, imagining how he would feel and react. Those suppositions had guided his decisions - until now.   
  
Now, it was in Madeline's hands. This is what she wanted - she and Nikita.   
  
Operations watched as Michael crossed below him, stopping to look up at the darkened glass. His eyes met Michael's glance and felt his uneasiness melt away - Michael was ready, prepared to face an unknown. Operations could see it in the set of his shoulders, the alertness of his stance. He smiled, knowing that Madeline had indeed been right. This would work.   
  
*****************   
Michael's Apartment   
  
Michael set the light, medium sized box and his shopping bags, the product of his "mission preparations", down beside the door before entering his security code and unlocking the door. Quickly, he glanced around the room. Finally his eyes settled on an object across the room. On top of his desk sat the single greatest source of light for the room - an angel. Hand-crafted of porcelain and silk with 20 white lights positioned under her gown and a piece of smooth cut glass exactly positioned behind her head to create the effect of a halo glowing around her pale, blonde hair, the figure infused the room with a ethereal and serene quality.   
  
The angel reminded him of Nikita in this season she had loved, with the lights and the festivities and the feeling of joy and the vitality that seemed to saturate everything and everyone. Somehow, this season and knowing he would soon return to 'their' home made Michael feel closer to her - like he could almost touch her. Perhaps that was why he bought the angel and always kept it lit. A tangible reminder that she was always with him - his light in the darkness.   
  
Satisfied all was as it should be, Michael triggered the lights, and retrieved the packages from the hall, carrying them over to the open sitting area in the middle of the loft. With meticulous care, Michael opened a cardboard box he had removed from storage earlier that morning and withdrew several wrapped boxes. He examined the tags attached to each in Nikita's hand, stacking each one on the glass coffee table before him.   
  
A momentary pang of pain stabbed at his heart before it was chased away by the warm memory of Nikita as she sat surrounded by scraps of wrapping paper and ribbons. He could hear her laughing as he teased her about Christmas shopping in June. His mind's eye replayed her smiling face, the way her hair flew out like a wing when she spun around, the glint in her eyes as she laughed with him. He could see her sitting on the sofa in their living room, the light steaming through the glass curtains illuminating her as she caught his arms and pulled him down to her.   
  
The muted chime of a clock reminded him of his limited time table. Rising, he quickly crossed the loft and retrieved a suitcase. He placed a few necessary personal items in the bag, knowing Section would provide anything he needed and then carefully arranged both his packages and Nikita's. Carefully, Michael walked his apartment, checking alarm settings, turning off lights, shutting doors till he stood once again in his foyer. Flipping the last light switch he turned and glanced back at the his glowing angel, which illuminated the room in a soft glow. Standing in the golden light, he could feel the warmth of his love for Nikita surround him, filling him with a renewed peace.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
December 23th   
Mid-afternooon   
Jet en route to US Michael sat in his seat, swirling the white wine around in his glass, grateful to have a least some small amount of privacy as one of only three passengers in the first class section of the Transatlantic flight. Reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat, he withdrew a well worn envelope. Carefully, he unfolded the paper - a wallet size photo falling out. Longingly, he gazed at the smiling faces of he and Nikita - the setting sun enveloping them in a warm glow. He clearly remembered the evening - while a party had "raged" within his home, he had stood gazing out at Nikita as she stood alone on the beach. Closing his eyes, he allowed the memory to wash over him.   
  
Nikita was so beautiful standing there. His heart tore, sharing her pain. He knew what she was thinking, understood what she was feeling. He had heard Linda and Ann teasing her about being pregnant. The jesting had ripped at the illusion of the life they lived, reminding her that she could never have what she so wanted. He had listened proudly as Nikita joked her way around the issue. She had played the ladies masterfully - redirecting their attentions and only later when it wouldn't be so noticeable, she had slipped out the door. But he had noticed- he always did. And despite his distance, he could feel her struggle, empathizing with her pain. He also knew she needed to deal with it on her own. He watched as her head, which had been tilted skyward, suck low and then rose again - so that her eyes were level with the horizon. The cue he had waited for - the outward sign that she once again had her control - her equilibrium. Opening the door, Michael slipped onto the beach and walked up behind her. Gently, he had embraced her, his arms wrapping about her waist and kissed the top of her head. He could feel her body relax against him, giving a silent "I'm okay." He felt her arms capture his, holding him close to her, and then loosening her grip, "Thank you." He heard the door to his home open, and the light footsteps approach them from behind - In unison they turned. "Gotcha!" Michael heard Linda shout as the clicks of the high speed shudder of her camera sounded. Opening his eyes, he gazed down at the picture and then the opened letter and began to read,   
  
My Dearest,   
I love you.   
  
Even now, cautious as I am being with this letter, I find it impossible not to write those words. I know how dangerous they are, but somehow, I must, at least write them.   
  
Today, when Linda brought me this photo and a second one of you watching me on the beach- I was amazed. For a long time I have known what you feel for me, and I pray you know how I feel - but seeing it so l clearly in the photographs has compelled me this once to put those feelings into words.   
  
Seeing these photographs made me realize that I need you to know that while I may never be able to say the words aloud - I will be saying them with every touch, with every glance, with every smile, and every recrimination. For even while I may be angry and hateful to you - I will always love you. You are my home, my heart , my soul.   
  
You will be here tomorrow, and I know already that you will not see this letter. Not yet, maybe never. But I pray that someday you will see it, and I pray that even without it - you will still know how much I love you.   
  
Folding the letter once again around the picture, he placed them both back into it's envelope and tucked it safely within his breast pocket.   
  
Looking out the airplane window, he unconsciously fingered the St. Michael's medallion that rested against his heart. "I love you, Nikita." He whispered softly.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
Madeline stood at the dining room window staring out across the dark stretches of beach and ocean. Periodically, she would raise her tea cup to her lips, sipping the now lukewarm liquid. In the background, she heard the crackle on the comm and Birkoff's voice reporting that Michael's SUV had just passed the last check point and was no more than 20 minutes from the beach house. Setting her cup on the serving tray, Madeline walked toward the master bedroom.   
  
She found Nikita sitting by her vanity just outside the bathroom, dressed in a natural toned wool, cable knit sweater and cream jeans. She was staring at the picture of Michael that had once been placed on her dresser. The slight redness around the rim of Nikita's eyes attested to the fact that she had been crying.   
  
Madeline was struck by a sweet, yet melancholy sense of déjà vu as she moved to stand behind her, looking at them both in the reflection. If only the answers and cures for Nikita's problems were as simple now as they had been when she had first come to Madeline for training. With infinite care, Madeline stroked Nikita's hair and smiled, letting her own emotions show.   
  
Madeline could see the fear in Nikita's eyes, knew she feared that Michael would hate her for not letting him know she was alive, and for allowing herself to be captured in the first place. She knew Nikita feared that too much time had past and he had moved on with his life. And she knew that Nikita worried about her appearance.   
  
Taking her hand, Madeline drew her over to sit on the bed and eased down to sit facing her. Gently, she brushed the tears from Nikita's face.. She watched as Nikita took a faltering breath. Madeline squeezed her hand reassuringly then rose to give Nikita some needed space. She walked over and stood by the frosted glass window, gazing out at the world that seemed more a blurred darkness.   
  
An image of Michael flashed in her mind and she felt a sweet rush akin to victory sweep through her. "Nikita," Madeline began, not turning from the window, keeping her tone soft and warm, "did you know that Michael had taken to wearing a St. Michael medallion? I am not sure when he started wearing it. I only noticed it the other day when he was in Medlab." She heard Nikita shift her position on the bed and decided to continue, "It is quite beautiful actually, a simple oval medallion on a fisherman's chain."   
  
Madeline looked over her shoulder to see Nikita staring at her intently. She could see the concern etched in her face, but more importantly, she could see the tiny sparkle had returned to her eye. As a sense of profound satisfaction filled her, Madeline smiled. She had guessed right about the medallion. "Don't worry about Michael. It was only a flesh wound. He's fine."   
  
A knock at the bedroom door startled both of them. Instinctively, Madeline closed the distance between herself and Nikita as the door began to open. Mentally, she registered the shift in Nikita's posture as well, the straightening of back and shoulders, the mask that fell across her face.   
  
"He's here."   
  
Again, Birkoff's voice drifted to her from the other room. She watched as Nikita rose from the bed and walked to the bedroom door, pausing momentarily to glance back. Madeline saw the strength and determination in her eyes and found it hard to repress a smile. With a nod, Nikita crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her.   
  
Turning back to face the beach, Madeline flipped open her cellular phone and dialed the familiar number.   
  
"Hello." She smiled at the brusqueness of his tone.   
  
"Paul - he's here. All is going along as planned."   
  
She could feel him pause, "How is Nikita?"   
  
"Fine. She's strong."   
  
"When are you returning?"   
  
"Christopher and I should be back by morning."   
  
"Good."   
  
"Birkoff and Walter?"   
  
"They arrived a few hours ago. Birkoff took it better than I expected, but not as well as I hoped. Nikita handled him."   
  
She paused, her breath slowing as she watched the scene unfolding before her on the cold sands.   
  
"Madeline?"   
  
She heard the concern in his voice and only then realized that minutes had passed -   
  
"I'm sorry, Paul. Nikita is approaching Michael. I need to monitor the situation. I will call you from the plane and brief you."   
  
"See that you do. " he paused, then "Take care of yourself - I will see you tomorrow."   
  
The phone disconnected, and Madeline flipped her cell phone shut unconsciously as she watched the scene before her. They had once been a formidable team - Michael and Nikita - their one weakness the fear of loss. That fear was now conquered - they knew that they were strong enough to survive. It was time to move on to the next phase - time to truly integrate them into the command of Section One.   
  
  
*****  
  
Even now . . . I remember all the empty spaces   
You filled with love   
Even now . . . Every corner of the world we shared   
Is still filled with love   
Even now . . . not a day goes by   
When I don't ache for you   
Through my tears I still hear your laughter even now  
Stars still shine when they're gone   
Hearts that break still beat on   
Letting go's the hardest thing to do   
'Cause all those feelings start   
And time can't change my heart   
It all leads back to you  
Even now. . . you are in my dreams and in my dreams   
You always will be   
Even now . . . You're the one true thing that brings my heart   
Back home here to me   
When I'm scared . . . I can close my eyes   
You are there . . . Ever young   
And somehow, I can always find you even now  
From all the memories kept inside   
To all the dreams we knew, the rush of you   
Will always be a part of me  
Even now. . . you are in my dreams and in my dreams   
You always will be   
Even now . . . You're the one true thing that brings my heart   
Back home here to me   
Even now . . . in my darkest night   
Still you shine silver light   
So I fall thorugh forever with you even now  
- Words and Music by Frank Wildhorn & Jack Murphy 


	8. Once Upon A Dream

  
  
Author's Note: reminder - this segment starts immediately following the epiloge of She Was There II: Prayer, which is also posted here at Fanfiction.net. IF it is easier to fine, go to http://www.geocities.com/saimhe_lfn/saimhe/prayer5.html.   
  
********  
  
December 24th, 1998   
  
In his heart, Michael knew that he would never truly be able to let go of his love for Nikita. He had also accepted that, at least physically, she would never again be part of his life. None of that, however, made it any easier for him to walk away from the dream he still visualized standing behind him. Each step closer to the house, to his future was harder to take, his every sense screaming at him to turn around, that there was *someone* there.   
  
As he approached the steps, he felt the wind shift around him as if someone was walking up to stand behind him. He could almost hear the sound of footsteps in the sand over the crashing of the ocean waves. Taking a deep breath hoping to steady himself, he inhaled the lingering scent of Samsara that mingled with the ocean breeze. The sweet sound of Nikita's voice whispering his name drifted to him. There were so many things he missed about Nikita, but the most tangible had been the absences of her warm, softly accented voice calling his name, the way she had accentuated the first syllable, as if by doing so she could stake her claim to his heart. He heard that same music now, calling him, "Mi-chael."   
  
Gentle fingers brushed through his curling, reddish brown hair, lingering momentarily on the back of his neck. "You cut your hair." The words - spoken in her low, warm voice - hung between them as his eyes filled with tears. A groan squeezed past the contracting muscles of his throat, "Oh God." Inhaling sharply, he tried to squelch the pain in his chest, the feeling that, once again, he had disappointed - failed - Nikita. He failed to protect her, to find her and then hadn't even managed to keep one small promise. He tried to force himself to regulate his breathing, to focus on the steps in front of him and the house just beyond, reminding himself that it was all in his imagination. She wasn't really there, it was only the wind that had brushed through his hair. He had only imagined hearing her voice.   
  
Yet the scent of Samsara grew stronger and the gentle touch of her fingers on his head drifted lower to his shoulder, becoming more insistent, gently turning him around. Warm hands cupped his face as he stared into misty blue eyes.   
  
"I'm here, Mi-chael. I'm real.." Her voice washed over him, the lyrical sound breathing hope into his heart and soul.   
  
This morning, everything had made sense. It had hurt, but it was real. He was coming to terms with Nikita's death. As he had done every morning for the past three months, Michael had sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and conjured up her image in his mind. He remembered the sound of her voice, her laugh, remembered how her face could so clearly express her joys or sorrows. He did it not only to keep her memory alive and clear in his mind and heart, but to steal him against her absence, to prepare him to face the empty chair across from his desk or at the briefing table. He did it to remind himself of what he had lost, and what he would never lose.   
  
This evening, when he had pulled into the drive way of the beach house, he had been glad to be back here. His memories and the sense of her continued presence here had comforted and welcomed him. So why did they torment him now? Why was his mind, his heart refusing to give up the illusion?   
  
Unless she was real.   
  
The warmth of her fingers against his face spread through his body - a kinetic pulse of realization. Overwhelmed and in shock, he stumbled away from her. Two steps and his calves connected with the deck causing Michael to fall gracelessly backward, landing with a thump. Sitting on the top step, he stared at her, desperately wanting to believe she was real. Slowly, he saw his image of Nikita change - taking on all the grittiness of reality as it shed the luminous glow of the dream.   
  
The once beautiful blonde hair, which had appeared to be pulled behind her head, with loose tendrils floating and shimmering in the breeze, was neither long nor shimmering. It was cut in long, shag-like layers and reached to just below her jawline. It hung, dull and listless. Michael could see that someone had tried to shape and style her hair, soften the effect, but it still had a harsh "hacked" look that accentuated the pale gauntness of her face. And she was least 15 pounds lighter than she should have been. She looked frail and weak, two words he had never thought to associate with Nikita.   
  
As he stared at her, not quite sure he could believe who stood before him, he watched tears stream unbidden from her darkly circled eyes. "Ni-ki-ta?" He whispered reverently, feeling his body shaking with fear and joy.   
  
Her lips curled inward, as if she were biting them, and then slowly spread into a small smile as she nodded her head affirmatively. Taking small, faltering steps, she began to move toward him. For the first Michael noticed how unsteady she was; how, with each step, her body was raked with small tremors.   
  
Slowly, he stood. She was there. The realization rocked Michael to his core - She was alive and she had endured hell to come back to him. The damn gates that surrounded his heart burst with the intensity of his love for her as it rushed through him, filling the spaces long empty. Hesitantly, he held out his hand, taking a step closer to her. He watched her face as it mirrored all that she felt - love, relief, joy.   
  
She extended her hand toward him, taking the final faltering step that would bring her into his arms. With little warning and despite her seeming determination, her body finally gave into its weakness, her knees buckling under her. With a the quickness of honed reflexes, Michael launched himself toward Nikita, catching her body as it crumpled to the ground. Kneeling on the sand, he cradled her trembling form against his chest. Overwhelmed, he gently rocked them back and forth, murmuring nonsense softly to her, comforted by her whispering voice breathing against his neck, "I'm here. Mi-chael. I'm here." She was there; his Nikita was really there. Lowering his face to the crook of her neck, he inhaled her scent deeply, and allowed the silent tears of joy and pain to intermingle and course down his face. He didn't care if time stood still or a thousand years past, all that mattered was Nikita - alive.   
  
He reveled in the feel of her in his arms again. Yet, even as he held her, he could feel her body continue to tremble. The tighter he held her to him, the more aware he was of how frail and thin she had become.   
  
The slight chill of the December air began to seep through his sweater. Gently, he pulled back, shifting Nikita in his arms so that he still supported her. Tenderly, he stroked his fingers down her face, not caring that tears fell openly from his eyes. "Ni-ki-ta," he whispered her name as the prayer and invocation it had become to him. He trailed his thumb delicately across her lips before leaning forward to brush his lips against hers. The contact was light and brief, but in that instant, Michael truly understood what it meant to be free. Pulling back once more, his eyes locked with hers as he slipped his free hand behind her knees and stood, deftly lifted her in his arms.   
  
With quick and sure steps, he climbed the steps and crossed the deck. When he reached the door, his eyes met hers, saw her smile as she reached for the keypad. She quickly entered the code that electronically opened their home. Maneuvering through the room, Michael gently lowered Nikita onto the sofa, grabbing the green throw from the sofa back, he covered her as he crouched beside her, his hands and eyes never breaking contact.   
  
His hands slid over her body, then under her sweater and shirt, trailing lightly over her warm skin, as if reaffirming that she was there. He could see so much in her eyes, they seemed older, wiser, more tired than he remembered, but the strength - the light - was still there, stronger and more determined than before. And the love was there, as clear as ever for him to see.   
  
The warm, beautiful smile that Michael had dreamed of spread across Nikita's face as she reached up to gently stroke her fingertips down his cheek. Turning his head into her palm, he brushed his check against her hand before capturing it with his own. Gently, he held her hand to his face for a moment before he drew it to his lips, kissing her fingers. Then, entwining their fingers securely together, Michael leaned forward to capture her lips with his. He felt the reassuring pressure of her response, the feel of her hands releasing his and sliding beneath his jacket to caress his back through his shirt as she pulled her body up to press against his.   
  
She was there - warm to the touch - alive. He was torn between wanting to crush her to him or pull away so he could stare into the blue eyes he had missed so much. Gently he brushed gentle kisses along the neck, then pulled back so that their temples rested together - his lips close to her ears. This was a dream - one he thought he'd lost. Never again. Softly, he whispered the words he wished he'd said months ago when he'd had the chance.   
  
"I love you, Nikita."   



End file.
